


Resolution

by sunrize83



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-10 16:05:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunrize83/pseuds/sunrize83
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For two weeks he'd been living on edge, desperate to fill the blanks in his memory, terrified of what he might see if he did. It was every bit the horror show he’d imagined. Post-ep for <strong>Born Under a Bad Sign</strong>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I've chosen to include the rape/noncon warning, the incident does happen off-screen and not during the course of this story.

_I’m standing on the edge of my fear_  
 _And I see it clear_

"Resolution" -- Nick Lachey

 

"Sam! Incoming!"

Sam raised his gun as Dean burst through the trees, head thrown back, arms and legs pumping. Ellie Watson was hot on his brother's heels, teeth bared and unruly blonde hair flying. As they drew closer, she growled and flung out a pale arm.

"Dean, now!"

Dean dodged sharply left, but in the same instant, Ellie's fingers locked onto his flannel shirt. Her vicious shove sabotaged Dean's attempt at a graceful tuck and roll and sent him tumbling. His head struck a marble tombstone, and he slid to the ground in a tangled heap.

"Dean!"

Sam watched his brother squint unfocused eyes and struggle to stand, his movements slow and clumsy. He shifted his gaze to Ellie, who had pulled up less than a yard from the open grave. As he tightened his finger on the trigger, he noted with some fascination the stillness of her chest.

"Wait! Please, don't." She slowly stretched out a hand, palm up.

He froze. Something in her voice . . .

"You don't have to do this." She stepped closer. "Please. Just . . . Just let me go."

Ice water flooded his veins and he broke out in gooseflesh. His pulse pounded in his ears and the air felt too thick and heavy for his laboring lungs. Her voice . . . soft and broken. Wide, liquid blue eyes . . . pleading . . .

_"Please, don't."_

_She scrabbles backward, dirt and broken glass cutting her palms and soiling a tattered floral dress. Wisps of blonde hair straggle free from a gold clip; a bruise darkens her cheekbone and blood trails from her nose._

_"S-sam, no. You don't have to do this," she pleads, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Just . . . just let me go. I promise I w-won't . . . I won't t-tell."_

_He leans in close, stroking the razor-sharp blade against the swollen flesh of her split lip, the wayward strands of hair at her temple. His smile widens when she flinches with a strangled whimper._

_Tipping his head, he lets his lips brush her ear. "Oh, sweetheart. I know you won't."_

_A flick of his wrist, and warmth splatters his face and neck._

_He doesn't flinch._

Sam flinched.

He slammed into his body--sights and sounds rushed at him with dizzying speed. The pop-bang of a gun. Dean crashing into Ellie with enough force to send her tumbling into the grave, then diving after her. An enraged shriek. The wet crunch of metal meeting flesh and bone.

Silence.

His stomach churning, Sam blinked, the world tilting, then settling. He realized he was still standing on the lip of the grave, gun outstretched.

"What the hell's the matter with you?"

With a shake of his head, Sam struggled to focus. Dean glared at him from where he straddled a now-motionless Ellie, his hands still wrapped around the knife driven through her ribcage.

"You nearly got yourself killed! If I'd been a little slower she'd've snapped your neck." Dean climbed out of the grave, wiping dirt and blackened blood from his fingers with a grimace. He glared at Sam, then did a double take. "Sammy?"

Sam's gun hand dropped limply to his side and his legs folded. As his knees hit the grass, he swayed, but Dean was there, holding him up. Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, staring at his fingers when they came away clean.

"Talk to me, Sam." Dean gripped Sam's cheeks between his palms. His voice had moved from irritation through concern to full-blown worry. "What's going on? Are you hurt?"

"No . . . I . . . I don't know." Sam clutched Dean's arms, sucking in a ragged breath. He was so damn confused, but one thing was crystal clear. "Dean, I . . . I killed her."

Dean continued to study Sam's face, but the tension in his shoulders eased a little, and he dropped his hands. "No, _I_ killed her. Well, technically she was already dead, but, you know what I mean."

Sam stared back, Dean's words gradually filtering through the terror and making sense. His eyes flicked to the corpse, then back to his brother. "No, not . . . not her. The other girl."

" _What_ other girl?"

"The one in the alley." Sam swallowed hard but the nausea rose up, his gut clenching and bile stinging his throat. "The one I . . ." He scrubbed both hands over his face, his eyes hot and wet. "Oh, God, Dean. I just . . . I _killed_ her."

Dean rubbed a hand across his lips, then through his hair. He glanced at the open grave and scanned the cemetery before standing. "C'mon."

Sam looked at his brother's outstretched hand, then up at his face. "Huh?"

With a huff, Dean grabbed hold of his elbow and hoisted him to his feet. "Let's go."

Before he could move away, Sam curled his fists in Dean's shirt. "Didn't you hear what I said?"

Uncharacteristically gentle, Dean pried loose Sam's fingers. "I heard. And we'll talk, okay? But not now, and not here. Just shut up and follow me."

It was easier to obey than question. Sam's wobbly legs steadied as they walked, and by the time they neared the Impala his heart rate had slowed. He sagged against the front bumper while Dean went around to the passenger door and rummaged in the back seat.

After stealing several glances over his shoulder, Sam frowned and scratched the back of his neck. "Uh, Dean? What are you doing?"

Dean emerged with a bottle of water. "Drink," he said as he thrust it into Sam's hands.

Sam scowled at the order. "Dean, I--"

"Five minutes ago you looked ready to pass out or hurl. Or both. Drink it." Threads of worry ran through the sharpness.

Sam cracked open the bottle and drank, thirst kicking in after the first couple swallows. Dean watched him, his gaze assessing, and Sam braced himself for the inevitable questions. Instead, his brother sat beside him, just close enough that their shoulders brushed.

Sam drew in a shaky breath. "I was in an alley. There was a girl. About my age, I guess, or a little younger. Pretty. She . . . she was hurt, bruises, bloody nose . . . And she was terrified. Of me." The words caught in his throat, and he took another swig of water.

"Are you sure it was you?" Dean asked.

_S-sam, no. You don't have to do this._

"Yeah." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "She, uh . . . She called me by name . . . begged me to let her go. I had a knife and I . . . I . . . cut her throat." He rubbed a hand over his face and squeezed his eyes shut. "I felt the blood."

Dean didn't say anything for a moment, just leaned his shoulder into Sam's. "Could it have been one of your freaky visions? Like River Grove?"

He never thought he'd wish for a vision, but man, he wanted it to be. The events he saw in his visions were preventable--despite his poor track record with making that happen. But this . . .

Sam slowly shook his head. "I didn't get a headache. But it's more than that. When I have a vision, it's like I'm detached, an observer.  
This . . ." He swallowed, throat clicking. "I was there."

"What are you saying?" Dean asked. "That it was a memory?"

Nausea rose up, hot and liquid in his belly. "Ellie was standing there, begging me to let her go, and then . . . it wasn't Ellie anymore. It  
was . . . her."

Dean frowned. "Sounds like it could be a flashback."

Sam flung out an arm. "Could be? Dean, it doesn't take a genius to figure out what this is about. I killed that girl the same way I killed Steve Wandell."

With a stubborn jut of his jaw, Dean shook his head. "Your girlfriend Meg killed Wandell."

"You know what I mean! There's a whole week of my life that I haven't been able to account for." The anger bled out of him, leaving exhaustion and a pounding headache in its wake. "Looks like I found one of the missing pieces."

He closed burning eyes, but that brought her face into sharp focus--the blood, the bruises, the fear. Who was she? Where did she come from? Was her family mourning her--parents, sister, brother? Or were they still looking? God, he didn't even know what he'd done with her body.

It wasn't until Dean's hand pressed the back of his neck that he realized he was practically hyperventilating. "I'm okay," he choked and concentrated on slowing his breathing.

One squeeze, and Dean released him. "Look, Sammy. We're gonna figure this out. But for now I want you to just sit tight, okay?" He slid off the hood and began walking back toward the grave.

Sam stood too quickly, and for a moment sparkles dotted his vision. "Dean? What are you doing?"

Though he turned to face Sam, Dean kept walking. "Finishing what we started. That caretaker may be partying with José and Jack, but he's bound to make the rounds sometime soon."

"Hang on--"

Dean waved him off. "Just chill, Sammy. You look like crap. You try handling a shovel and you'll wind up face planting on our girl Ellie."

He couldn't find it in him to argue--especially since he suspected Dean was right. His head throbbed as if it might split open, his arms and legs felt too loose and shaky, and he kept seeing flickers of the girl's face like dust motes at the edges of his vision.

The breeze kicked up, stirring dirt and sending a stray pop can clattering down the pavement. The temperature had dropped significantly over the last hour; the chill dried the sweat at the nape of his neck and started him shivering.

Sam retreated to the passenger seat of the Impala, wrapping himself in his arms. It was happening. For two weeks he'd been living on edge, desperate to fill the blanks in his memory, terrified of what he might see if he did.

It was every bit the horror show he’d imagined.

He closed his eyes, unable to resist pulling out the existing pieces, like poking a sore tooth with your tongue.

Steve Wandell, by all accounts a good man. A hunter who'd killed a lot of nasty stuff, saved a lot of people. A _father_. Dead, his throat cut.

Jo, smart and tough, but just a kid really, and more naïve than she'd ever admit. Bruises. A mild concussion. And something else, something never spoken, that lurked beneath her stubborn assurances of "I'm fine" and "I don't blame you." A darkness in her eyes whenever she looked at him . . .

Eyes that looked a lot like the girl in the alley.

Sam shivered.

And Dean. The first person he trusted, depended on. The last he'd want to hurt. He'd shot his own brother, then beaten him so severely that Dean still stiffened up at night, his arm and chest a palette of fading purple, green, and yellow. Worse than the bruises, though, was the hurt he sometimes caught in his brother's eyes in those rare, unguarded moments when Dean didn't realize Sam was looking. Sam had learned at an early age that words could be as destructive as fists or weapons. Whatever he'd said--he'd wounded Dean with brutal accuracy.

Meg's words, sure, but spoken through his mouth. He'd been nothing more than a tool, a . . . a _meatsuit_. Images assaulted him in rapid, short bursts like a strobe light: _smooth cut of a knife, spurt of blood, screaming, his hand buried in strands of blonde hair, a face--God, Jo's face--slammed against wood, a gunshot, Dean jerking, falling, water . . ._

Sam shoved the car door open and twisted, dropping his feet onto the pavement. Cradling his head in his hands, he worked to draw air past the iron bands tightening his chest.

Was this what it would be like when he went darkside? A prisoner inside his own body, destroying not just strangers but everyone he cared about?

Sam rubbed the inside of his right arm, where Dean had drawn the symbol from Bobby’s anti-possession charm with permanent marker. Sam knew his brother had viewed it not only as a fail-safe, but as the means to help him regain some measure of control--and maybe even ease the nightmares that had haunted his sleep.

“No demon, no matter how badass, can get past this,” Dean had assured him with that cocky grin that Sam found alternately amusing and irritating. “It’s like deadbolting the door, Sammy. What’s out is gonna stay out. Trust me.”

And Sam had nodded and kept his mouth shut because there was no point in bursting Dean’s bubble with what he knew to be the flip side of that metaphor: Locking the door was no damn good if the monster was already inside with you.

_Was_ you.

_"Just . . . just let me go. I promise I w-won't . . . I won't t-tell."_

_"Oh, sweetheart. I know you won't."_

His stomach rolled and twisted. Lurching upright, he staggered to the grass before his legs gave out. His vision tunneled, and static filled his ears as he struggled to drag air past the breath-stealing clenching in his gut while he lost the water he’d just drank and what remained of his dinner.

Eventually he became aware of a hand on his back and the steady drone of words. His body reacted to the familiar sound even before his brain could tag it with a name. The retching slowed, then quieted, leaving him huddled on hands and knees, panting raggedly.

“. . . can’t take you anywhere.” Dean’s voice was calm and steady and warm with affection despite his words. “I mean, dude--you know how I feel about puking. At least you didn’t do it in my baby, though, I’ll give you that.”

“Don’t say I’ve never done nothin’ for you.” Sam cleared his throat and spat, scrubbing his sleeve across his mouth as he sat back on his heels. His face felt hot, his body frozen. He wrapped his arms around his ribs and willed himself to stop shivering.

Dean removed his hand but continued to watch him. “Another flashback?”

_BlondehairbonecrunchingnoSamstopgunshotwarmblood . . ._

Sam shuddered, squeezing shut his eyes and breathing through his mouth as he forced down another surge of queasiness. Barely.

“Sam?”

“Huh?” He stared at Dean, disoriented.

“Was. It. Another. Flashback?” Dean repeated it with exaggerated clarity but worry etched lines around his eyes, lurked in the tight set to his mouth.

Worry for him. And damn it, he was tired of putting that look there.

“Guess so. I’m okay, Dean.”

Dean snorted and shook his head. “Yeah, you look it.”

He tightened his arms, suppressing a shiver. “I am. I just . . . Can we go back to the motel?”

“Sam.”

“I just need some sleep.” He squarely met Dean’s gaze, dredging up every ounce of bullshit he’d cultivated over years of hiding things from their dad. “Really.”

It either worked, or Dean was too weary to call him on it. “Fine.”

He stood and grabbed Sam under the arm, hauling him upright and steering him back to the car on unsteady feet. Sliding behind the wheel, Dean reached for the ignition, only to pause and wrinkle his nose.

“Dude.” He reached across Sam and rolled down the window.

“Jerk,” Sam muttered, but his heart wasn’t really in it.

The water bottle tossed into his lap and the warm hand on the back of his neck said Dean’s wasn’t either.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam was losing it.

Dean sat on the edge of his bed, arms propped on his knees, and watched his brother sleep--or what came closest to it these days. Sam twitched and moaned, his hair damp with sweat despite the coolness of the room. His hands clenched the sheets and his legs moved restlessly as if he were doing battle even in slumber.

Dean didn’t want to think about what he was fighting.

He pulled a hand down his face and stood, stripping off his T-shirt with a wince. Shoveling all that dirt hadn’t done his shoulder any favors. He gingerly prodded the still-healing skin, puckered and reddened around the edges. A sense memory ambushed him--Sam’s big fingers grinding into the wound--and he grimaced, then darted a look over his shoulder. Sam slept on, looking four instead of twenty-four, and Dean’s heart rate slowed from a gallop to a trot.

For once the motel had decent water pressure, and he turned it on hot, wincing at the initial sting, then sighing as tight muscles loosened under the spray. He’d been struggling to hold it together--to hold them both together--for months, and the stress was taking a toll on his body as well as his mind. He was starting to lose his edge--nothing dramatic, but in their line of work a split-second loss of reaction time could mean the difference between life and death for him, for Sam.

And Sam . . .

It was bad enough when Sam was determined to single-handedly balance the cosmic scales by saving as many people as possible. But ever since Meg had taken him for her warped version of a joyride, Dean had watched his brother begin to unravel at the seams. At first he’d seemed to accept Dean’s pledge to save him at face value. Then the nightmares kicked in, his subconscious revealing in sleep horrors he could never remember once awake. Until tonight.

The flashback, memory, whatever you called it, had rattled Sam, destroying the small steps Dean had made with inked-on protection symbols and “I’m the big brother” reassurances. He’d begun to withdraw on the way back from the cemetery, and by the time they reached the room, the most Dean was able to coax from him were monosyllabic answers and shakes of his head. He reminded Dean of the Sam he’d pulled from a burning apartment building, and the thought of going through _that_ again--the insomnia, the nightmares, the depression, the guilt--made Dean’s stomach churn.

After shutting off the water and toweling himself dry, he pulled on a pair of clean boxers and a T-shirt and snagged his toothbrush from the glass by the sink. As he brushed he used an arm to swipe the steam from the mirror, then wished he hadn’t. The dark smudges under his eyes rivaled Sam’s, and his too pale skin made every freckle stand out.

Dean snorted. Good thing he wasn’t planning on hitting a bar tonight. Hot chicks didn’t go for a guy who looked like an extra from _Night of the Living Dead_.

Problem was, Dean wasn’t going to get a decent night’s sleep anytime soon--not until Sam did. And the problem with _that_ was he had no idea how to help Sam, who was hurting in ways even Dean’s awesome big-brother skills couldn’t fix. And with Henrikson hot on their trail, they couldn’t exactly risk contacting a shrink. Dean snorted--as if Sammy would ever go along with that plan anyway.

When he came out of the bathroom, Sam had quieted, sprawled on his stomach with his face mashed in the pillow the way he only slept when truly exhausted or drunk. 

Dean navigated by the single bar of moonlight that had managed to squeeze through the curtains and stretched out on his own bed with a soft grunt of satisfaction. The shower had worked magic on his aches and pains, and Sam’s soft, rhythmic breathing was better than any drug. Within minutes he was asleep.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The crash had him on his feet, knife in hand, before he’d fully opened his eyes. Sam’s bed was empty, the chair where he’d set the weapons bag tipped over, and someone was blundering around in the bathroom. 

Dean flicked on the light just in time to see Sam drop to his knees in front of the toilet, where he proceeded to do his best to puke up his toenails.

“Damn it.” Dean tossed the blade onto his bed and grabbed a washcloth off the towel bar, wetting it with cold water from the sink. 

He hovered in the doorway for what seemed an eternity, hating the feeling of helplessness. When Sam finally propped his folded arms on the rim and dropped his head onto them, he knelt down and pressed the cold cloth to the back of his brother’s neck.

“Geez, Sammy. Is this some kind of payback for that crack about not hurling in my car?” He grimaced a little at the lameness of his own joke.

Sam didn’t answer, and it took Dean a moment to register the shudders rippling through his brother’s huddled form. 

“Sam? Sam, look at me.”

With a reaction time way too sluggish for Dean’s comfort, Sam lifted his head. His skin was chalky under the bathroom’s harsh fluorescents, his eyes glassy, and he was shivering hard enough to set his teeth chattering.

Muttering a soft curse, Dean looped Sam’s arm over his shoulders. “C’mon, Sasquatch, we’ve got to get you warm.”

He managed to drag his brother to his bed, only bouncing off two walls in the process. Once he had Sam seated and wrapped in a blanket, he went back for a glass of water. 

“Take it slow,” he warned as he steadied the tumbler in Sam’s hands. “I’ve seen enough puke tonight to last me a lifetime.”

Sam managed two anemic sips before handing Dean the glass. Though the shivering had eased and a little bit of color had returned to his cheeks, he clutched the blanket in a white-knuckled grip and seemed to find the frayed edge fascinating.

“Want to tell me what that was all about?” Dean asked.

Sam ducked his head, his already tense shoulders stiffening further. Dean abruptly realized his brother hadn’t spoken a word since the whole incident began, which was even more disturbing than Sam’s sudden passion for vomiting.

“Talk to me, Sammy,” he said, tilting his head to see his brother’s evasive face. “You’re really starting to freak me out.”

“Sorry.” 

It was barely more than a mumble, but it was something. 

Dean kept his own voice gentle. “Don’t apologize. Just tell me what’s going on.” When it seemed Sam would remain silent, he added, “Bad dream?”

Sam finally met his gaze with dull, lifeless eyes. “It wasn’t a dream.”

Great. Dean had the uncomfortable sense of speeding toward a head-on collision with no hope of turning the wheel. He’d give it try, though.

“You were asleep. Sounds like a dream to me.”

“It was the same girl I remembered in the cemetery, Dean. It wasn’t a dream then, and it isn’t now.” Sam’s voice was as flat as his expression, and damn, things were bad when Dean found himself missing the bitchface.

“All right, I get it.” Dean rubbed the tight muscles at the back of his neck. “Meg wasted her while wearing your skin, and now your freaky brain has decided to give you a front-row seat. But Sam, you’ve got to--”

“I didn’t see myself wasting her! I saw--” Sam bit off the word, pressing the backs of his curled fingers against his mouth.

“What?”

“I raped her.” Sam’s eyes welled up. “Shit, shit, shit," he choked, voice cracking. "I _raped_ her.”

It felt as if someone had swept his legs from beneath him. For a moment, Dean could only gape as he fought to regain his balance. 

As if shocked anew by his own words, Sam’s breathing sped up, and the tremors returned full force.

“Okay, Easy, easy. Sam.” He spoke the name in the low growl that usually got Sam’s attention, coupled with a firm hand on his knee. “Slow it down.”

Sam struggled to comply, bringing one hand up to scrub at his eyes. “No wonder she was so scared.” He gasped out a sound between a laugh and a sob. “I thought it was because of the knife.”

Dean winced. “Sam.” 

He moved to sit beside his brother, resting a hand on his back. For a moment Sam resisted, all rigid spine and sharp elbows, then he leaned into Dean’s side. 

Dean listened to the strangled breaths that signaled Sam desperately trying to stave off tears and counted the ways he was going to make Meg pay.

He gritted his teeth, thinking he really should have anticipated something like this. After all, Meg was a kinky bitch--she’d made that plain when she was feeling Sammy up in that crappy abandoned building. She must have gotten off on using him to act out her perverted little fantasies. 

Dean could only hope this was the worst of it.

“It wasn’t you, Sam.” It sounded empty, even to him, but what the hell.

Sam pulled back, his jaw clenched. “That’s just semantics.”

“Bullshit,” Dean snarled. 

“Is it? It was _my_ face she saw, Dean. My hands, my body that . . .” Sam swallowed and closed his eyes. 

Dean clenched his hands into fists. He had to stop this, now. “So I guess that means you blame Dad, huh?”

“What?” Sam’s eyes popped open, and he frowned.

“For what happened in that cabin. For throwing you up against the wall and trying to rearrange my guts.”

Sam looked away, his throat working. “It’s not the same.”

“The hell it isn’t.” Dean sucked in a calming breath. “You know how demons operate, Sam. They lie and manipulate and do whatever it takes to twist you up inside. Meg possessed you, used you for one purpose--to destroy both of us. Don’t let her win.”

Sam didn’t answer, but he didn’t argue either. 

Dean stood and retrieved his knife from the end of the bed, then slid it back under his pillow. The clock’s digital display flicked from 2:47 to 2:48, which meant he’d gotten a whopping three hours of sleep before Sam’s little freak-out.

“You want me to get you some ginger ale for your stomach?” He watched Sam from the corner of his eye as he picked up the toppled chair and checked the spilled weapons bag.

A shake of Sam’s tousled head was all the answer he got. Dean contented himself with the fact that his brother was no longer clutching the blanket, and his color had improved.

“How ’bout I turn out the lights and we try for some more sleep?” He couldn’t help the thread of longing that crept into his voice.

From Sam’s horrified reaction, you’d have thought he’d suggested torturing small animals. 

“Okay, so sleep’s a no-go.” Dean rubbed a hand over his face to hide a yawn. “Could turn on the TV, find some of that--” He caught himself--barely--before he said porn. “--those infomercials you’re so fond of.” He waved the remote. “Hawaii chair? Flowbee? Stop the Insanity?”

Sam shrugged off the blanket, looking past Dean with a thousand-yard stare. “I’m gonna take a shower.” He disappeared into the bathroom, and a moment later Dean heard the click of the lock engaging.

“Or you could take a shower.” Dean flopped onto his bed and glared up at the cracked ceiling. “That went well.”

He listened to the patter of water on tile, knowing damn well the kind of clean Sam craved couldn’t be achieved with hot water and soap. As much as he could assure Sam he wasn’t responsible for Meg’s actions, the truth of the matter was that Sam had to live with the fallout. 

Dean ground the heels of his hands into gritty eyes. For most of his life, he’d been good at two things--hunting, and taking care of Sam. It was something he counted on, that he could put his back against when everything else was falling apart. But lately when it came to hunting, he felt off his game. Maybe because the personal cost was becoming higher than he was willing to pay--Caleb, Pastor Jim, Dad. He’d be damned if he was going to lose Sam too. 

Of course, it didn’t seem like he was doing such a hot job taking care of that, either.

A loud thump, like a body hitting tile, sounded from the bathroom. Dean launched himself off the bed and pounded on the door. “Sam? You all right in there?”

When Sam didn’t answer, he pressed his ear to the cheap plywood. The water shut off, and he could hear his brother moving around the room--crashing into and dropping things, from the sound of it. 

He’d opened his mouth to call Sam’s name again, when the door jerked open and he tumbled forward, bouncing off Sam, who plowed past him without a word.

“Damn it, Sam, what are you doing?” He took in a spilled shampoo bottle, puddled water, and discarded towels before turning to watch Sam, who was pulling on clothing as if the building were on fire.

Sam didn’t even look at him, just zipped his jeans and began digging through his duffel, presumably for a shirt. “Get dressed, Dean, we gotta go.”

Dean closed his eyes and counted to five. He was tired, frustrated, and in no shape for another of Sam’s freak-outs. “Go where?”

Already wearing a T-shirt and hoodie, Sam had one sock clutched in his teeth as he pawed through clean clothes. “To Jo’s place.” He snatched a second sock from the bag with a grunt of satisfaction.

“Sam.” He kept his voice oh-so-reasonable, which really, he deserved a gold star for. “It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

“I know.” Sam sat on the end of the bed and reached for his shoe, pausing to scowl at Dean. “Why aren’t you getting dressed?”

“It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

“I don’t care. We’ve gotta go now.” Sam reached for his other shoe, but Dean got there first, dangling it just out of reach. Sam made an unsuccessful grab for it. “What’s your problem, man?”

Dean matched his brother’s glare. “My problem is I’m tired, my shoulder hurts, and I have no idea why I’ve got to drive all the way to Minnesota in the freakin’ middle of the night.”

Sam’s gaze slid to Dean’s shoulder and he frowned, then looked away. “I told you, I have to see Jo.” He reached for the shoe, and again Dean pulled it away, placing a palm on Sam’s chest to hold him in place. “Dean!”

“Yeah, you told me. The question is, why?” When Sam wrapped his arms around himself and looked away, Dean shook his head. “I’m the one holding the keys, Sammy. Way I see it, you’re not going anywhere until you tell me what this is all about.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Sam muttered, “I’ve got to know how bad I hurt her.”

With a sigh, Dean sat beside his brother. “We’ve done this, Sam. Yeah, you knocked her around, but you apologized and . . .” The true meaning behind Sam’s words broke through, and he trailed off, his throat tight. “Sammy, you don’t think--”

“I don’t _know_!” Sam ran a hand through his hair, making it stand even more wildly on end. “What I do know is that something happened that night, something worse than me hitting her over the head and tying her to a post. When I apologized--it was in her eyes every time she looked at me. And now that I remembered that I . . .” He bit his lip, blinking furiously. “I have to know.”

As Sam talked. Dean mentally replayed the incident at the bar, searching for anything that could allay his brother’s fears. But the truth was, he’d been so focused on Sam that he’d barely given Jo a second glance.

“Dean?” Sam was staring at him with red-rimmed eyes. 

Dean gave Sam the shoe. “Let’s go.” He held on a moment, forcing Sam to look at him. “Not because I think you did it. But because I know you’re gonna beat yourself up until you get proof that you didn’t.” He went to his own duffel and pulled out a clean shirt.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice was very soft.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. You’re making all the coffee runs, bitch.” 

Inwardly, he sighed. It was gonna be a long drive.


	3. Chapter 3

The drive to Duluth took eighteen hours. Dean made it in fifteen.

He put the car in park and turned off the engine, turning to face Sam with one arm stretched along the seatback. “This is it.”

Sam sat up straight and peered out the window. When he’d tracked down Jo to apologize, she’d been at the Roadhouse, visiting Ellen and Ash, so this was his first real glimpse of the tavern. He studied the lot filled with trucks and SUVs, the bright Sandpiper sign boasting “Dark Hills Premium Beer,” the surrounding warehouses and docks.

“Look familiar?”

Sam slowly shook his head. “How’d she ever wind up here?”

Dean yawned and scrubbed the back of his head. “According to Ellen, an old Army buddy of Jo’s dad owns the place.”

Guilt prickled Sam’s conscience as he took in his brother’s red-rimmed eyes and the lines around his mouth. Dean had insisted on doing all the driving, pointing out what might happen--to the Impala--if Sam had a flashback at seventy miles an hour. To stave off sleep he’d cranked the radio, cracked his window when the car became too stuffy, and sent Sam on numerous trips for strong, truck-stop coffee.

Sam hadn’t minded. All Dean’s tricks for staying alert had the added benefit of keeping him awake as well. The last thing he wanted to do was sleep.

“You think she’s in there?” he asked.

“Only one way to find out.” Dean reached for the door handle and paused. “Unless you’d rather sit here and watch Jim Bob,” he indicated a large man staggering around the corner of the building, “take a piss.”

With a roll of his eyes, Sam yanked open his door and got out, stretching until his back popped. The sun had set, and thick gray clouds obscured the moon and stars, promising to add more snow to the light dusting already on the ground. He shoved his hands in his pockets and scuffed his feet along the icy ground. His mouth felt desert dry, and he kept his gaze fixed on the neon orange letters over the door.

Inside, the tavern was dark and noisy, the buzz of conversation overlaid by the blare of rock music. Sam looked through the sea of flannel and denim to the large windows overlooking the docks. He noted that most of the Sandpiper’s largely male clientele were either lined up along the bar or clustered around rough, wooden tables. 

As he pulled his gaze back to Dean, one of the heavy support posts caught his eye. An image of Jo tied to the beam, her face obscured by a curtain of blonde hair, popped like a flashbulb across his vision, and his stomach dropped.

Dean gripped his arm, and Sam bit back a gasp. His brother’s gaze was sharp, assessing. “You still with me?”

Sam swallowed hard and tipped up his chin. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah. Right.” Dean glanced around, then steered him toward an empty booth tucked against the wall. “Park it. I’ll see if I can track Jo down.”

Sam shrugged off Dean’s hand, but slid into the booth without argument. He dropped his eyes to the scarred tabletop, feeling the weight of Dean’s gaze for a long moment before his brother moved off toward the bar. 

With a sigh, Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. From the moment he’d stepped into the bar, he’d had the tingly, hair-raising feeling that Dean liked to call a “Haley Joel” moment. Though his head swore that he’d never set foot in this place, that nothing was familiar, his gut seemed to be connecting with the Sandpiper on a primal level.

And it was taking all his self-control not to head for the nearest exit.

Sam scanned the crowd, finally spying his brother’s leather jacket. Dean was slouched against the bar, chatting up the pretty redhead serving drinks. As she slid a mug of beer toward him, he flashed the patented Dean Winchester grin and slid his hand

_over hers to encircle her wrist, the small bones as fragile as a bird’s beneath his fingers._

_“Sam, what’s going on?” Jo tries to pull away, but he tightens his grip._

_“I can be more to you, Jo.” The fear in her eyes thrills him, but he keeps his expression guileless._

_“Maybe you should leave.” She’s doing her best to sound tough, but he hears uncertainty lurking beneath._

_He holds her gaze for a long moment, then curves his lips in the barest hint of a smile. “Okay.”_

_She snatches away her hand as soon as he releases it. When he gets off the stool, she turns her back, obviously fighting for composure. He smirks--stupid bitch._

_He grabs her and spins her around, reveling in the way she squirms against him._

_“Sam, get off me!” Her voice wavers. Not so tough now._

_He buries a hand in her hair and yanks, exposing her neck to his lips and teeth, loving the frantic hammering of her pulse. She reaches for an empty bottle, but he easily overpowers her._

_“Jo, Jo, Jo.”_

_Smashing the bottle, he shoves her against the bar, pressing himself along her back. All the wriggling and fighting just makes it better._

_She’s sobbing now, terrified. “Sam, no! Please! Please!”_

“Sam.”

He jerked away from the hand on his shoulder, scrabbling blindly toward the back of the booth. Voices, motion, music all assaulted his senses, and he blinked hard, struggling to bring it all into focus. 

Dean was staring at him with the little line between his eyebrows that meant he was worried and trying not to show it. “Dude, it’s just me.”

“I’m okay.” Sam said the words automatically, self-defense against the concern.

“Yeah, catatonic’s a good look for you.” Dean sat and slid a mug across the table. “Brought you a beer.”

Just the smell set Sam’s stomach to churning. It must have showed on his face, because Dean raised an eyebrow and pulled the drink back. “Or not.”

He breathed slowly through his mouth, willing the nausea to pass. “What’d you find out?”

“Her shift starts at seven, so she should be getting here any minute.” Dean took a drink from his mug and shook his head. “I still think maybe we should’ve given her a heads up. Let her know we were coming.”

“And she’d have asked why.” Sam pressed his trembling hands against the table top. “It’s better this way.”

Dean looked unconvinced. “Whatever, man. Anyway, the lovely Emily,” he hooked a thumb at the bartender and waggled his eyebrows, “promised she’d send her over.” 

Steel bands tightened around Sam’s chest. The air felt too thick, the clatter of scraping chairs, boisterous laughter, and music too loud. When he swallowed, his throat made a dry click. “No.”

Dean frowned. “What?”

Sam shook his head, scooting toward the end of the booth. “No, I won’t . . . I mean, I don’t think I . . . 

“Whoa, hold on.” Dean clamped a hand around his wrist, only to release it when Sam shuddered. “What’s going on? You were the one that wanted to come here, that had to see her, remember?”

“I do. I will.” Sam felt sweat break out on the back of his neck as he stood. “I just . . . I can’t do this _here_.”

Understanding flooded Dean’s gaze. “What exactly did you remember?” When Sam just looked away, he sighed. “Okay, okay. See that door over there? It opens onto the docks. Go get some air. I’ll bring her to you.”

Not trusting his voice, Sam nodded and fled. He wove his way through crowded tables, tripping over someone’s foot and nearly taking out a girl juggling several pitchers of beer. Muttering apologies, he pushed through the door and stumbled outside.

For a moment it was enough just to draw the crisp air into his lungs. Sagging against a wooden railing, he let the darkness and silence envelop him, slowly calming his jittering nerves. 

As he stared out at the water, Jo’s wide, terrified eyes--and worse, his own feelings of excitement--rose in his memory. His stomach twisted, and he closed his eyes against the burn of tears. He’d _gotten off_ on her pain and fear. No matter that it was Meg in control, it was still his body, he still felt and enjoyed every minute of it.

Just like the monsters he and Dean hunted.

Only this time, _he_ was the monster. And Dean hadn’t been there to stop him.

He opened his eyes and stared down into the inky black water as it lapped against the wooden pilings. Behind him the door opened, spilling light and warmth. Pulling in a deep breath, Sam turned. Jo stood beside Dean, wearing the same guarded expression that had begun to haunt him.

He pasted on a smile. “Hey, Jo.”

“Sam.”

He started to fold his arms, stopped, shoved hands into his pockets instead. “You look good.” He flushed, horrified. “Uh, that is, I mean--”

“Thanks. You look like shit.” She quirked an eyebrow at Dean. “So do you.”

“Nice to see you too, sweetheart.” Dean looked at Sam. “Totally worth the fifteen-hour drive.”

“And speaking of that . . .” Jo glanced between the two of them. “What’s this all about?”

“I needed to talk to you.” Sam took a breath. “Alone--if that’s all right with you.”

She was good. If he hadn’t been watching closely, he’d probably have missed the fear that briefly flickered in her eyes. “Sure. You want a drink?” Her mouth set in a straight line. “It’s on the house.”

Sam had the uncomfortable feeling that she was looking for a specific reaction to that. “Uh, actually . . .” He scratched the back of his neck, then curled his fingers into a fist when they trembled. “Out here would be better. If you don’t mind.”

She stuffed her hands in her pockets and inclined her head. “Okay. But you’ll have to make it fast. My shift started five minutes ago.”

All three stood in silence for a moment before Dean threw Sam a worried look, then cleared his throat. “Okay, then. If anyone needs me, I’ll be dazzling Emily with my awesome good looks and sparkling personality.”

After he disappeared inside, Jo looked at Sam with raised eyebrows. “So?”

Hearing the edge in her voice, Sam moved back to lean against the railing, putting a healthy distance between them. “I need to talk to you about what happened . . . before.”

Jo regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Why?”

It wasn’t the response he’d expected. “Huh?”

“Why do we need to talk? I thought we were past it.”

“We were, it’s just--”

“You were possessed, you apologized, there’s barely even a bruise left--it’s all water under the bridge, right?” She delivered the words with her gaze fixed just over his left shoulder, never making eye contact.

Her obvious discomfort only increased the sick sense of wrong in Sam’s gut. “Yeah, sure, but--”

“Because it’s not really something I want to reminisce about, you know?” she said, posture rigid and expression stony. “Like, ‘Hey, Sam, remember the time you tied me to that post?’ doesn’t really work for me. I’d just as soon let the whole thing drop.”

Frustrated, he straightened from his slouch. “I _can’t_.”

It came out sharper than he intended, and Jo flinched back, her hands shifting restlessly in her pockets. She recovered quickly, though, and her eyes were flinty when they finally challenged his. “Why the hell not?”

Sam swallowed and licked his lips. “I’ve been getting flashes of things that happened while I was possessed,” he said quietly. “Some of them are from that night.”

“And?”

“There are still holes--gaps. And I need to know . . .” He sucked in a shaky breath. “I hurt you. I need to know exactly how bad.”

With a huff, she rolled her eyes. “Like I told you before, you threw me around a little, knocked my head against the bar.” As she studied his face some of the stiffness leaked out of her shoulders. “It was a mild concussion, Sam. I stopped having headaches after the first day.”

He shook his head, his agitation rising even as Jo calmed. “That’s not what I mean. I want you to level with me.”

She furrowed her brow. “Maybe you’d better tell me just what it is you expect me to say.”

“The truth!” His voice cracked, and his eyes burned. Turning away, he scrubbed at them with the heel of one hand.

“Sam . . .” 

He dropped his hand, surprised by the concern in her voice and the fact that she’d moved to face him. It took all his courage to meet her gaze. “I remember some of the things I said, things I did. And I’ve got to know how far it went. Did I . . .” His voice cracked. “Jo, did I . . . rape you?”

Her eyes widened, then went soft with emotion. “Oh, Sam. No. God, no.”

The intense wave of relief turned Sam’s legs to rubber, and he sat on the cold wooden boards, his back pressed against a post. Jo crouched down beside him but remained silent, giving him space. He had a sudden memory of the two of them sitting in the back seat of the Impala, trading amused glances as Ellen reduced Dean Winchester, badass hunter, into a stammering little boy.

He wondered if they’d ever share that easy camaraderie again.

“You-- _she_ \--messed with my head,” Jo said. “And I’ll admit there was a moment when I started to worry . . .” A shiver rippled through her.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m okay.” She gave him a tentative smile to prove her words. Then it faded. “The truth is she wasn’t really interested in me at all. It was Dean she was after.”

Seeing a ghost of the wariness that had troubled him, Sam cleared his throat. “Jo, did I say or do anything else I should know about?”

Pain drifted across her face, but she shook her head. “No.”

Sam frowned. “Are you sure? ’Cause that didn’t look like a no.”

She set her jaw, but he could tell the hardness in her eyes wasn’t for him. “Demons lie, right? And even when they don’t . . . Nothing she said matters.”

She stood, dusting off her jeans before extending a hand. “I’ve got to get to work.”

Sam accepted the tug upright. “Thanks. For, you know . . .” He gestured vaguely. “And for talking to me. Considering the last time I came here, well . . . Agreeing to be alone with me was pretty brave.”

Jo cocked an eyebrow. “Not really.” She pulled her father’s hunting knife from a pocket, and one corner of her mouth turned up. 

Sam chuffed a startled laugh, the knot in his chest loosening a little.

“You two heading out soon?”

“If I can drag Dean away from Emily,” Sam said dryly.

Jo rolled her eyes. “Good luck.” She opened the door to the tavern, but turned back. “Take care of yourself, Sam.”

“Yeah.” He smiled. “You, too.”


	4. Chapter 4

There was a crack in the ceiling that looked disturbingly like George Bush.

Of course, he wouldn’t be able to see the damn crack if the cheap, threadbare drapes would actually block the light from the parking lot. Dean turned his head and squinted at the alarm clock. 4:32. Great. Though his eyes felt sticky and his body heavy with weariness, his mind had apparently decided sleep was off limits. 

Heaving a sigh, he rolled to the side of the bed, shoved off the blanket, and swung his feet to the floor. As he rubbed his stiffened shoulder, his gaze automatically drifted to the other bed.

Sam was stretched on his back, one arm curled above his head, the other across his stomach. His expression was peaceful, his breathing slow and even. In fact, he looked as if he’d barely moved since Dean turned out the light.

A little of the tension melted from Dean’s neck and shoulders. He’d known Sam was eaten up with worry over what might have happened with Jo--it was why Dean had agreed to pack up in the middle of the night and drive fifteen hours cross-country, stopping only when the needle hit “E” or his back teeth were floating. So, yeah, he’d gotten the whole urgent thing.

What he hadn’t fully understood was just how truly terrified Sam was that he’d left Jo with more than a few bruises. ’Course, he’d begun to buy a clue when they reached the bar and Sam began to unravel right in front of his eyes.

Sam was funny that way. He could whine like a prissy bitch over a hangnail, but when the hurt ran deep--girlfriend burning on the ceiling deep, or “I couldn’t save him deep”--he tended to close down. Oh, he was all about everyone _else_ sharing their pain. The same rules just never seemed to apply to him.

So in typical Sam fashion, he hadn’t really volunteered the details of his conversation with Jo. Thing is, he hadn’t needed to. 

Dean had been sitting at the bar, sucking down his second beer and admiring Emily’s dimples--and other assets--when Jo came back inside. She’d nodded at Dean with a faint smile and disappeared into a back room. He’d turned his gaze from her to the door, Emily’s voice fading to a faint buzz in his ears as he’d waged an internal debate--his feet itching to move, to go after Sam, while his head cautioned him to stay put, give the kid a little space.

And then the door had opened, and Sam had stepped inside. And it wasn’t until that moment that Dean fully realized just how twisted up Sam must have been because his face . . . His face bore the intense relief of a man strapped in the chair when the governor calls with news of a pardon.

And the fist squeezing Dean’s lungs had loosened its grip, and he could breathe.

With Sam stumbling--literally, the big klutz--with weariness, and Dean one step from hitting the wall himself, he’d coaxed a motel recommendation from Emily, stuffed the cocktail napkin bearing her number into his pocket, and guided his brother out to the car. 

Though he'd been sure Sam would nod off and leave Dean to haul his ginormous ass to the room, his brother had stoically remained awake. If his chin dipped toward his chest, he’d snap up his head and glare wide-eyed at the dark ribbon of road, fighting sleep with a tenacity that seemed to hold more than a little desperation.

But even Sam’s stubborn streak had its limitations. Once in the motel room, he’d tossed his duffel onto his bed and sat to remove his shoes, conceding the first shower to Dean without argument.

When Dean had emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later, Sam was passed out on top of the bedspread, still fully dressed, one shoe off and one shoe on. Dean had tugged off the remaining shoe, coaxed and prodded until Sam’s trailing legs were fully on the mattress, and covered him with a blanket as if he were four again and worn out from a hard day of play.

That had been nearly nine hours ago--which these days was more sleep than Sam managed over two or three nights. And yet he’d remained down for the count, with no apparent signs of waking.

Dean’s mouth curved, and he silently blessed Jo for whatever she’d said--or hadn’t. Hell, at this point he didn’t care if she’d lied through her teeth, if the end result was giving Sam a moment’s peace.

He blew out a long breath, gazing around the room. The trick now was finding something to occupy himself until Sam woke up. He eyed the TV remote but didn’t pick it up. Though both he and Sam had engaged in their share of muted, middle-of-the-night television, he had no idea how loud the room’s last occupant had left the volume. Normally he’d consider scaring the crap out of Sam his big-brotherly duty, as well as hilarious. But in Sam’s current condition? Not so much.

Dean eyed the laptop bag, which was within easy reach. He could try to scare up a new hunt--or better yet, check out BustyAsianBeauties.com. Personally, he wasn’t that into Internet porn, but Sam’s bitchface when he discovered where Dean had been surfing was always worth the price of admission.

Of course, the room’s quiet would magnify the click of every keystroke. Not to mention his eyes felt too dry and gritty to stare at a computer screen.

Sam drew in a sharp breath, frowning as he mumbled something unintelligible. Dean leaned over and laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. It was a trick he’d picked up when they were kids, a way of using warmth and touch to short-circuit a nightmare without waking Sam. And just like the little boy he’d been, Sam stilled, his brow smoothing and respiration steadying.

When he was certain Sam had returned to a deeper slumber, Dean removed his hand and used it to rub his burning eyes. Even now, despite all the crap Dean had put him through, despite Sam’s self-doubts and fears, Sam showed an implicit trust in him that was humbling--and terrifying. It made him want to pack it all in, just grab Sam and drive. See the Grand Canyon, the redwoods--hell, even the world’s biggest ball of twine. Live the lie that had so effortlessly fallen from their lips for the past year.

It also made him more determined than ever to kill the yellow-eyed son of a bitch and every one of the bastards who followed him. Because if there was one creed he’d come to live by, a mantra far stronger than saving people and hunting things, it was that nobody messed with his little brother and walked away. 

Nobody.

Suddenly the walls felt a little too close, the need to move irresistible. Dean stood and picked up his duffel, carrying it into the bathroom. He dressed quickly and, with the exception of a dropped shoe, quietly. Pulling on his jacket, he navigated carefully across the room, pausing for a last look at Sam before he slipped out the door.

There was a convenience store just across the two-lane strip of blacktop the locals called a highway, its flickering neon sign declaring, “OPEN 4 HO S!”

Dean smirked and turned up his collar against the chill as he headed across the street. 

A jangling bell announced his entrance, but the rumpled clerk simply peered over the tops of his bifocals before returning his attention to a dog-eared copy of Weekly World News. Dean filled two large cups with coffee, then balanced the cardboard tray in one hand so he could snag a few packaged pastries on the way up to the register. 

He flashed a grin. “Mornin’--” he tilted his head to read the clerk’s name badge “--Harold.”

Harold set aside the magazine with a sigh and began ringing up Dean’s purchases.

“Saw the sign out front,” Dean said. “Always nice to find a place that doesn’t discriminate.”

“Eight dollars and eighty-six cents.” Harold’s voice was as expressionless as his deeply lined face.

“You’re a real ray of sunshine, you know that, Harold?” Dean tossed nine dollars on the counter and gathered up his purchases. “Keep the change.”

The sky was just beginning to lighten, and Dean quickened his pace as he headed back to the room. Though he knew he couldn’t have been gone more than ten minutes, suddenly leaving Sam alone seemed like a bad idea. Yeah, his brother was a big boy and plenty able to take care of himself, but he’d also gone on a simple burger run and disappeared for a week--not to mention got himself possessed.

Back at the room, he breathed a sigh of relief. Sam was still sleeping, though he’d kicked off the blankets and rolled onto his stomach. Dean tugged up the covers, set the extra coffee on the bedside table, and slipped back outside, leaving the door cracked just enough to hear if Sam had another of his screamers.

He slouched on the Impala’s hood, alternating between sipping coffee and warming his fingers with the cup. The clouds had rolled through without delivering any snow, but the air held a definite bite. Dean huddled into the warmth of his coat, grateful that he and Sam wouldn’t be battling slick conditions once they hit the road.

The driving beat of “Down on Love” broke the peaceful quiet, and Dean nearly dropped his coffee. Fishing his phone from his pocket, he looked at the display. _Huh._

He flipped it open one-handed and pressed it to his ear. “Hey, Bobby. Kind of early for you, isn’t it?” 

“Where are you?” 

Though he was never exactly Mr. Touchy-Feely, Bobby’s voice held an edge that had Dean instantly on alert. 

“Minnesota,” he said, all the humor draining from his voice. “Near Duluth. Why?”

“How’s Sam doing?” 

Dean frowned. “He’s sleeping. And again I ask--why?”

A long pause, and Dean could almost hear Bobby searching for words. “He, uh . . . remember anything more?”

Okay, now his Spidey sense was really tingling. “Just spit it out, man.”

Bobby sighed. “Fine. Seems Steve Wandell isn’t the only hunter to turn up dead.”

The bottom dropped out of Dean’s stomach. “Who?”

“Guy by the name of Jack Brigman. He lives about fifty miles from Wandell. The two of 'em used to partner up on bigger hunts.” 

“Hunting’s a dangerous gig. How can you be sure the deaths are related?” Dean knew he was grasping at straws, but damn, Sam was going to freak.

“His throat had been slit with a hunting knife,” Bobby snapped. “Does that sound related?” He drew another deep breath, and his voice softened. “It’s Sam, Dean.”

“You mean it’s _Meg_. Shit, Bobby, I have a hard enough time trying to convince Sam that none of this was his fault!”

“All right, I hear you. And I’m sorry, it’s just . . . You’ve gotta understand how bad this is. There are a dozen hunters out for blood right now, and the fact that Brigman’s daughter is missing just adds fuel to--”

“Wait a minute, what?” Dean sat up straight, his heart thudding against his ribs.

“Brigman’s 20-year-old daughter, Amanda, is MIA,” Bobby explained. “No one seems to know where she might have gone. That’s why it took so long to discover his body. Brigman was a loner--Amanda and Steve Wandell were the only family he had.”

Dean closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “I, uh . . . I don’t suppose you know what kind of car she drives.”

“What kind of-- How the hell would I know something like that?” There was a raspy sound, like Bobby had run a hand down his bearded cheek. “Tell me what’s going on, Dean.”

The order implicit in Bobby’s tone was so achingly like Dad’s, Dean snapped open his eyes. “I need you to get your hands on a picture of the girl. And use your PD contact to find out what type of car she drives,” he said. “We should get to your place by dinnertime.”

Bobby was silent a moment. “You think Sa-Meg had something to do with Amanda Brigman’s disappearance?”

“We’ll tell you everything when we get there. Just . . . fly under the radar when you get that info, okay?”

Bobby snorted. “You think you’re talking to some snot-nosed kid?” He dropped his voice to the affectionate growl Dean remembered from childhood. “You watch your backs, you hear?”

“You too.”

Dean snapped his phone shut and pressed it to his forehead. The coffee in his hand was now lukewarm, and what had made it to his belly churned sickly. He was beginning to feel like one of those pop-up clowns, surviving one punch after another, only to be knocked down again.

And he was so tired.

“Dean?”

He startled, sloshing tepid coffee onto his hand. 

Sam leaned in the now open doorway, knuckling the sleep from his eyes. With his rumpled clothing and bedhead, he looked like a toddler after a long nap.

“’Bout time you woke up, princess.” Dean forced a smirk as he slid off the hood.

“Were you just talking to someone?” Yawning, Sam stepped back to allow Dean into the room.

“Got you coffee and some of those nasty Hostess donuts you’re so fond of.” Dean faked a shudder, hooking a thumb at the nightstand as he slipped off his coat. “Man, I don’t know how you eat those things.”

“Says the guy who thinks grease is one of the food groups.” Sam grabbed the coffee and sat at the small table, fishing a package of the pastries from the bag.

“You seriously lack taste, Sammy. Don’t know where I went wrong.” Dean silently congratulated himself on his diversionary tactics. He needed time to think, to figure out just how he was going to lay this latest bomb on--

“So who were you talking to?”

Of course his pitbull of a brother couldn’t let it go.

Dean busied himself with checking over the weapons bag--not that it needed it. “Bobby.”

“Bobby?” Sam said, his mouth full of donut. He swallowed. “Why would Bobby call this early?”

“It’s not that early, Sleeping Beauty.” Dean checked the rounds in his favorite gun and slipped it back into the bag. “Sun’ll be up soon. Why don’t you take a shower so we can hit the road?”

Though he didn’t hear Sam move, suddenly his brother was beside him, his eyes narrowed. “Dean. Why did Bobby call?”

So much for figuring things out.

“Sit down, Sammy,” he said quietly, motioning to the bed.

Face tight with apprehension, Sam perched on the edge of the mattress. 

Dean rubbed the back of his neck and tried to gauge his brother’s state of mind. Just how much could he spin this to soften the blow? The answer wasn’t encouraging.

Sam licked his lips. “Dude, say something. You’re scaring the crap outta me.”

“Okay, okay.” Dean took a breath. “Bobby called to give us a heads up.” He moved to sit beside his brother. “Sam, another hunter is dead.”

Though his expression didn’t change, Sam’s fingers tightened on the bedspread. “I take it he didn’t die on the job.”

“He was Steve Wandell’s partner. And his throat was cut.”

With a jagged laugh, Sam shook his head. “You know, I’d actually started to tell myself the worst was over.” He studied Dean’s face and went still. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

Fighting the compulsion to look away, Dean nodded. “This hunter--Brigman? Has a 20-year-old daughter who’s gone missing.”

All the color drained from Sam’s face. “Oh, God. It’s her, isn’t it? The girl in the alley, the one I . . .” He squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing fast and hard.

From the time Sam had been a little kid skinning his knees, Dean had learned the art--the absolute necessity--of becoming an island of calm in a crisis. As he shoved aside his own freak-out, he found himself wishing for the days when a hug and a bandage could solve everything.

“We don’t know that,” he calmly told Sam.

But his brother was up and pacing. “The hell we don’t! I killed Wandell, I killed this . . . this Brigman, and I killed his daughter. And, hey, let’s not forget--I raped her too! And who knows what else I might’ve done? A week’s a long time, I could’ve . . . could’ve--” 

Dean stepped in front of him and grabbed Sam’s hoodie in both fists. “Stop.” 

The stern order pulled Sam up short, just as he’d known it would. They were both John Winchester’s boys, after all. 

Dean uncurled his fingers and patted Sam’s chest. “We’re gonna figure this out. But that means not jumping to conclusions before we have all the facts. Okay?”

They locked gazes for a long moment, Sam wide-eyed and breathing hard, Dean projecting a steady assurance he didn’t really feel. 

Sam’s shoulders curled, and he looked away. “Okay.”

With another pat, Dean turned back to the weapons bag. “Bobby’s expecting us, so get cleaned up, and I’ll pack the car.”

His brother didn’t answer, just pulled clothes from his duffel and headed for the bathroom. He paused in the doorway. “Dean . . .”

He couldn’t look up, couldn’t see the brokenness on Sam’s face, or he’d give everything away. “It’s gonna be okay, Sammy.”

He wished like hell he believed his own words.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean had experienced more than his share of uncomfortable moments while riding in a car.

There was the time Sam dropped the bombshell about going to college--on the way to a hunt, for cryin’ out loud--which had sparked an argument so heated their dad had nearly sideswiped a semi before pulling to the side of the road.

There was the day Dean drove away from Stanford, the blackened ruin of an apartment building in his rearview mirror and a mute, grief-stricken zombie masquerading as his little brother in the front seat.

There was the endless drive back to the Roadhouse with a fuming, acid-tongued Ellen riding shotgun. And just for the record? That woman scared the crap outta him.

This trip ranked right up there with the rest of them.

Though Sam was close enough for Dean to touch, he’d never felt farther away. He slumped in a defeated sprawl, his face turned toward the window, resisting--or worse, just plain oblivious to--all Dean’s attempts at baiting him. And after twenty-four years of practice, Dean was pretty damn good at baiting.

Crank some Zepplin? Check. Sing loudly and just slightly off-key? Check. Drum solo on the steering wheel? Check. Bean and cheese burritos with the inevitable aftermath? Check and check.

And through it all, Sam . . . had done nothing. No rolled eyes. No bitchface. No “ _Dude!_ ”

Nothing.

It was really starting to creep Dean out--and piss him off. Not at Sam, but at the whole screwed-up situation. So much had been thrown at his brother over the past year and a half--watching his girlfriend burn, the visions, Dad’s death, the yellow-eyed demon with his “plans,” and of course, Dad’s dirty little secret. 

Sam had weathered it all. He’d picked himself up after each and every blow and kept moving. Battered and reeling, sure, and at times barely able to put one foot in front of the other. But beneath those floppy bangs and liquid eyes lay a core of steel. Sam might bitch and moan and whine, but he didn’t give up.

Until now.

Sam wasn’t just hurting this time--Dean could have handled that. Sam was resigned. And that resignation worried Dean more than the not eating, the nightmares, the tears. His brother was taking this incident with Meg as proof--proof that the yellow-eyed demon’s plans for him were inescapable. Proof that Dean would need to carry out their dad’s final, inconceivable order.

Like hell.

The sign for a truck stop advertising gas and food broke the tree line. With a flick of his turn signal, Dean moved into the right lane. He found the diner, pulled into a parking spot, and shut off the engine.

Sam straightened and looked around, blinking as if he’d just awakened from a deep sleep. “What are you doing?” His voice sounded dry and raspy from disuse.

“I’m getting coffee. You’re gonna eat something.” Dean put steel into the words. Occasionally, acting as if something was a done deal short-circuited Sam’s arguments.

Not this time. Sam’s brow furrowed with annoyance. “I’m not hungry.”

Dean made the sound of a buzzer. “Wrong answer.” He slid out of the car without waiting for Sam’s response.

Sam was out his own door and around the car in record time, stopping Dean with a hand to his chest. “I’m not a little kid, Dean. You want coffee? Fine. But I’ll eat when I want to.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? When’s that gonna be? ’Cause unless you count the bite of donut you swallowed this morning, the last time you and food occupied the same space was yesterday at lunch. And from what I could see, most of that stayed on the plate.”

Hands shoved into his pockets, Sam hunched his shoulders and looked away. “We’re almost to Bobby’s.”

“So?”

“So, I’ll eat something there.”

Dean snorted.

Deepening his scowl, Sam snapped his gaze to Dean’s face. “I will!”

“Bullshit.” Dean held up a hand to cut off Sam’s protest. “The minute we walk through Bobby’s door, you’re gonna be all over him about this Amanda chick. Last thing on your mind will be making a sandwich.” He chased his brother’s evasive eyes. “Sam. You know it’s true.”

Sam swallowed, his face smoothing from anger to weariness. “Dude, I don’t know if I _can_.”

“Hold out your hand.” When Sam stared blankly at him, he wiggled his fingers in a “come on” gesture. “I mean it, man. Hold out your hand.”

Grumbling under his breath, Sam did as he was told. Instead of his normally rock-steady control, fine tremors vibrated through his fingers. 

With a huff, Sam curled them into a fist. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means everything, and you damn well know it.” Dean went for the kill. “I count on you. If we run into something on the way to Bobby’s, how are you supposed to watch my back? You couldn’t even hold a gun steady.”

It sucked the remaining fight out of Sam. “Fine.” He started walking toward the diner, shoulders bowed.

Dean pushed down the guilt that tried to well up. Yeah, insinuating Sam couldn’t protect him was dirty pool. But if that’s what it took to get the kid to eat, so be it.

The diner was quiet, the lunch crowd cleared out and only a few scattered stragglers sipping coffee or lingering over dessert. A sign by the cash register advised _Please Be Seated_ , so Dean picked a booth against the back wall with a clear view of the door. 

He tossed Sam one of the laminated menus, tapping the back of his own. “Looks like I get to have me some pie.”

Sam didn’t roll his eyes or crack a grin, just flipped doggedly through the pages as if cramming for a test. He was on his third time through, teeth gnawing his bottom lip, when their server bustled up.

“Sorry about that, boys, I didn’t see you come in.” She blew aside a stray wisp of gray-streaked blonde hair and pulled a pen and pad from her apron pocket. “My name’s Maggie. What can I get you?”

When it became clear that Sam was still wrestling with his choices, Dean flashed a grin. “How’s the pie, Maggie?”

She leaned in conspiratorially. “Blueberry’s canned, but the apple? Fresh. I make it myself.”

“Apple it is. And coffee. Black.” 

“Good choice.” Maggie jotted it onto her pad and looked to Sam, still buried in the menu. “How ’bout you, hon?”

“Uh . . . I’m not sure.” He mustered a weak smile. “Maybe a few more minutes?”

“Sam.” Dean said it in the tone that clearly warned, _We had a deal_.

“I’m trying,” Sam said shortly but without any real heat. “I just . . .” He sighed and flipped to the front of the menu. 

For the fourth time.

Dean turned to Maggie and was surprised by the softness with which she regarded his brother. He followed her gaze: shadowed hazel eyes, too pale, too thin--Sam looked as if his skin were stretched too tightly over his bones. Add that to the natural charm he always seemed to hold for middle-aged women, and it was no wonder Maggie was a goner.

“Getting over the flu,” Dean explained with an exaggerated shudder. “Wasn’t pretty.”

Maggie clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Damn bug’s been going around. I’ve got a pot of chicken noodle soup on the stove. Should be easy on your stomach.”

Sam’s glare at Dean withered in the face of her kindness. “Thank you, ma’am. That sounds good.”

When she left, the scowl returned full force. “Dude, the flu?”

“What?” Dean gestured toward the kitchen. “Did you see that? You’ve got her wrapped around your little finger.”

Sam slumped against the seatback. “Whatever.”

“At least it got you talking,” Dean muttered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sam narrowed his eyes and propped his arms on the pitted formica table. “You deliberately trying to piss me off?”

Dean met his gaze with equal heat. “At least when you’re pissed I know you’re still breathing. I was beginning to wonder.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m sorry if finding out I’m a rapist and a serial killer has put a damper on my conversational skills.”

Heads turned, at the words or the volume Dean wasn’t sure. He pasted on a smile-- _nothing to see here, folks, move along_ \--and hissed, “Are you crazy? Or do you want someone to call the cops?”

Maggie chose that moment to return with their food. “Try that,” she said to Sam as she set the bowl before him and added several packages of Saltines from her pocket. 

“Smells good.” Sam picked up his spoon and dipped it into the broth, receiving a pleased smile for his efforts.

“You boys need anything else, you just holler,” she told them and moved off to give a nearby trucker his check.

Dean forked a generous helping of cinnamony apples and crisp, buttery crust into his mouth--heaven--and watched Sam do an imitation of a guy eating soup. While it involved a lot of swirling and stirring, not much seemed to be making its way into his mouth.

“How’s the soup?” Dean asked around another bite of pie.

Sam locked eyes with him, pointedly spooned some broth into his mouth, and swallowed. “Delicious. Best I’ve ever had. Happy?”

Damn. Leave it to Sam to suck all the enjoyment out of a perfectly good piece of pie. “I’ll be happy, smartass, when you actually finish it. And just for the record, nagging you to eat isn’t my idea of a good time, but I don’t know what the hell else to do. It’s not like you can afford to lose any more weight.” He speared a bite of apple, shoved it into his mouth, and chewed for emphasis.

He expected Sam to fight back, not go quiet. Head bent over his bowl, Sam shoveled broth and noodles into his mouth with a kind of grim determination that made Dean’s stomach hurt.

He watched Sam for a few minutes, then dragged a hand down his face. “I want to help, Sam. I’m just not sure how.”

Sam didn’t lift his head, but his hand stopped moving, and his voice was soft and thick. “Don’t go anywhere.”

The words warmed him even as the sheer responsibility behind them tightened his chest. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

Dean picked up his fork, and Sam went back to his soup. Though the only sounds between them were the scrape and clink of utensils on dishes, the air felt lighter, Sam’s shoulders a little less tense. 

Dean had finished his pie and was working on his coffee when Sam shoved aside his nearly empty bowl and slid out of the booth.

“Bathroom,” he told Dean, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to where the restrooms were located.

Great. “Wait. Sit down a minute.” As Sam paused, Dean scrambled through his mental list of stomach remedies. “Take deep breaths. I’ll get Maggie to bring you a Sprite.”

Sam’s face twisted as if Dean had suggested he strip. “Wha . . . ? I don’t need a Sprite. I need the bathroom.”

“You’ve got to fight it, Sammy. Doesn’t do any good to eat if you just puke it back up.”

Huffing a soft breath of amusement, Sam shook his head. “I’ve just gotta take a leak, Dean. The soup was actually pretty good.”

“Oh.” Dean picked up his mug, flicking a dismissive hand to hide his relief. “Don’t let me stop you.”

With a roll of his eyes, Sam headed for the men’s room.

Dean checked his watch. Despite more frequent caffeine stops to counteract sleep deprivation, they were still making good time and would reach Bobby’s well before dinner. 

Though a part of him dreaded whatever new revelations Sam would have to face, he couldn’t help feeling a sense of relief that he’d have help holding his brother together. In the months since Dad’s death, Bobby had become the closest thing to home and safety. His no-nonsense practicality and gruff affection were a grounding force that Sam--and Dean--desperately needed, now more than ever.

“Looks like the soup was a hit.” Maggie cleared Sam’s bowl and Dean’s plate off the table.

Dean nodded, his smile genuine and without the usual intent to charm. “Just what the doctor ordered. Thanks, Maggie.”

“ _Pffft_.” She waved him off. “I raised four boys of my own. I can still recognize when one needs a little mothering.” She set the check on the table. “You can pay up front when you’re ready.”

Her words pierced an unexpected sore spot. Dean wondered, not for the first time, what he and Sam would be like if they’d had the benefit of mothering as they grew up. 

Though faded to a misty, dreamlike quality, he could still recall freshly baked cookies, soft, soft skin, and butterfly kisses.

Sam’s only memory of their mother was a fleeting glimpse before she’d burst into flames. Again. 

He remembered the choked awe in his brother’s voice that night as they’d both laid sleepless in a darkened motel room. “I never knew she was so beautiful.”

Dean shrugged off memories best left unexamined and looked again at his watch. Ten minutes. Yeah, Sam could be a ginormous girl, but not even he needed that long to take a piss. Uneasiness prickled his spine, and he slid out of the booth and headed for the restroom.

As he pushed through the door, Dean’s gaze panned the urinals and two stalls, both empty. Soft, ragged breathing caught his attention, and he turned to his left, where a row of sinks lined up beneath a large mirror. Sam was huddled in the corner between the final sink and the tiled wall, arms locked around his legs, face pressed to his knees. Rocking.

“Sam?”

Dean rushed to kneel beside his brother. One hand clasping the clammy skin at Sam’s neck, he tried to assess Sam for injuries.

“What’s going on? Is it a flashback?” Dean briskly rubbed Sam’s back, feeling the shivers under his hand. “C’mon, Sammy. Talk to me.” 

Sam lifted his head. His face was so pale the skin looked translucent, and he stared through Dean with blank, unseeing eyes. “I have to do this,” he croaked, his voice rough and cracking. “And I can’t let you stop me.”

His lashes fluttered, his eyes rolled up, and he collapsed against Dean.


	6. Chapter 6

_Dean turns, the shotgun clutched loosely in his hand. “It ain't happening, Sam.”_

_Anger flares inside him--not white-hot, but a slow, cold burn. “It’s not your decision.”_

_“You’re what they’re hunting, remember?” Dean stares him down, his face set and hard. “I’m not letting you within a hundred miles of the bastards.”_

_He curls his fingers into fists, struggling against the overwhelming urge to smash them into Dean’s face. “You can’t stop me.”_

_The shotgun comes up, aimed at his chest. “Wrong again.” Dean’s voice is cool, but there’s anguish in his eyes. “You lost it this morning, Sammy. You’re out of control, and I can’t trust you out there. Now sit in the chair.”_

_Though the anger simmers higher, he does as he’s told. Until he sees Dean pull plastic restraints from the weapons bag_

_“What are you doing?”_

_There’s not a shred of sympathy on Dean’s face. “Keeping you safe.”_

_Disbelief, fury, betrayal bubble up. “No!” It bursts from him in what feels like a physical punch so strong his vision goes dark._

_He gasps and blinks. Dean’s on his ass, and the plastic ties are skittering across the floor._

_He’s out of the chair while Dean’s still fumbling to stand, reeling from whatever knocked him off his feet. Arm looped around his brother’s neck, he applies pressure, ignoring the way Dean’s limbs first flail, then gradually still._

_“I have to do this,” he grits through clenched teeth. “And I can’t let you stop me . . .”_

“. . . stop doing this because it’s really starting to piss me off. Sammy?”

Two sharp smacks to his cheek, and Sam came up swinging. Bright lights, cold tile, the sour odor of urine all assaulted his senses, and pain knifed through his forehead, blurring his vision. He gasped, curled forward, and would have taken a header if not for the hands that gripped his arms.

“Whoa! Easy there, tiger.” 

Relaxing into the hold, he blinked again, and things slid into focus. 

Dean’s eyes were lined with worry that belied the light tone of voice. “You with me now?”

“What happened?” The words came out a dry croak as he gazed past Dean’s shoulder. 

A bathroom. He was sitting on his ass on the grimy floor of a public restroom. 

“You tell me.” Dean studied him with sharp intensity. “You said you had to take a leak. That was ten minutes ago. I found you on the floor, out of it.”

Images flickered through his mind--snugging his arm around Dean’s throat, his brother’s scrabbling fingers, the heavy, limp weight of Dean’s body--and Sam’s head throbbed dully. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut.

Dean’s fingers, warm and steady, brushed the side of his face. “Talk to me, Sam, or I’ll haul your ass to the nearest hospital.”

With a grimace, Sam opened his eyes. “No you won’t.”

Dean scowled. “Smart ass. Was it another flashback?”

Maggie’s chicken soup churned sickly in his stomach, but he met Dean’s gaze without flinching. “Yeah.” He swallowed hard against the nausea. “A flashback.”

Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth. “What was it this time?”

“Just me knocking Jo around. Nothing we didn’t already know.” Sam grabbed hold of a sink and dragged himself upright, swaying with the head rush.

Dean steadied him. “Careful.”

“I’m okay, Dean.” He did his best to look reassuring around the unrelenting ache in his head. “Go pay the bill. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Dean hesitated, still watchful. “You sure you’re okay? ’Cause you look like crap.”

“Thank you, Florence Nightingale.” Sam waved him off and turned on the nearest tap. “I’ll be right out.”

He held it together until he heard the soft whoosh-thunk of the door closing. Propping his hands on the sink, he dropped his chin as his breathing stuttered and hitched. His head continued to throb, his eyes felt dry and gritty, his chest too tight--all the usual post-vision side effects.

God, had it been a vision? A vision of him choking-- _killing_ \--Dean?

Sam plunged his cupped hands under the cold water and splashed it onto his face, running his damp fingers back through his hair. He stared at the hollow-eyed, haggard face in the mirror. Remembered the cold burn of fury, the tangible explosion of raw emotion. Of power.

Just like he’d felt in Max Miller’s closet.

_My plans for you, Sammy. You, and all the children like you._

Was this it? Had Meg been the catalyst, his first step down the path toward the dark side?

Though his heart was hammering in his chest, Sam straightened and drew in a deep breath, consciously smoothing the furrow in his brow and relaxing the set of his jaw. He had to get a grip before he walked out there, or Dean would know something was wrong.

And if there was one thing he was certain of, one thought that cut cleanly through the tangled web of confusion, shock, and fear, it was this:

_Dean can’t know._

Dean would try to reassure him. He’d flash that annoying smirk and say the vision was crap because no way could Sam ever get the drop on him. Then he’d repeat the same thing he’d been saying for months--nothing bad would happen to Sam as long as he was around.

But what if _Dean_ was the one that needed protecting? From Sam? The nightmare with Meg had taught him an important lesson: Dean would die before he’d do anything to hurt Sam. 

And Sam was not about to let that happen. He’d put a bullet in his own brain first.

When he walked out of the restroom, Dean was slouched against the counter, chatting with Maggie. Though he appeared relaxed and completely focused on her, Sam knew from the subtle loosening of his brother’s shoulders that Dean had been watching for him. Worrying about him.

As he reached them, Maggie held up a white paper sack. “Some soup for the road,” she explained, then winked at Dean. “And a piece of pie.”

Beaming, Dean pressed a hand over his heart. “Maggie, you’re an angel.”

“Thank you.” Sam took the bag, warmth from the container of soup heating his palm.

“Don’t thank me. Just stay healthy,” she said, shaking a finger with mock severity.

Sam forced a smile. Great. Not only was he lying to Dean, he’d helped deceive poor Maggie into giving them free food. 

Back in the car, the food stowed behind his seat, Sam turned away from Dean’s furtive looks and shut his eyes. Feigning sleep, he sorted through the confusing images from whatever cerebral event he’d experienced in the bathroom: _Dean’s stony expression . . . “You’re what they’re hunting” . . . “I can’t trust you” . . . The pure, sharp edge of anger . . . Dean struggling . . . weakening . . ._

Sam swallowed, his throat dry and burning. He’d done terrible things while Meg had possessed him. He’d become what they hunted, and he’d hurt Dean. Badly. If what he’d seen was a flashback . . . It would be just like his brother to keep something like this from him.

Except it didn’t feel like a flashback. It felt like a vision.

Sam’s heart thudded against his ribs, and he had to work to keep his breathing slow and even. If it was a vision, then it was going to happen. Unless he stopped it.

Of course, the quickest way to clear things up would be to ask Dean. 

_“Dude, did I happen to, like, choke you while I was possessed?”_

Real smooth.

And one little problem. If it had never happened--and he was becoming more and more certain that it hadn’t--Dean would want to know why Sam had asked. And he’d never let it drop until he had an answer.

So, yeah. Not an option.

“What did you really see, Sam?”

Dean’s voice startled him, and Sam jerked before he could catch himself.

“I know you aren’t sleeping, so you might as well cut the act.”

With a soft sigh, Sam opened his eyes and uncurled. Dean was wearing the same face he’d worn every time Sam had tried to put one over on him since they were kids.

Sam did what he’d always done in response. “Huh?”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You heard me.”

Déjà vu. That was how well it usually worked.

With a shake of his head, Sam sat up straighter. “I don’t know what you want from me. I already told you, it was about Jo.”

“That’s all of it?” Dean didn’t attempt to hide his skepticism. “You were practically catatonic, Sam.”

“What can I say? Punching and nearly sexually assaulting a good friend takes a lot out of me.” Sam pressed his lips together and glared at the ribbon of blacktop. 

To his surprise, Dean let it go. 

They drove in silence for the next several minutes. Lulled by the hum of tires on pavement and the tapping of Dean’s fingers on the wheel, Sam replayed what he was becoming convinced was a vision, searching for a way to make sense of what he’d seen. 

“Remember that summer we lived in Iowa?”

Sam snapped his gaze to Dean, one eyebrow raised. “Okay, random.”

Dean ignored the jab. “You were what--eight?”

“Nine.” Sam furrowed his brow. “Why?”

“What was the name of that kid you hung around with? The one with the pansy-assed haircut?”

“Bailey.” Sam quirked his lips. “He couldn’t help it. His mom worked in a salon.”

“Kid was a walking trouble magnet,” Dean said, both irritation and admiration in his voice, “and he pulled you into all his stupid schemes.”

“Yeah, well, you weren’t around much that summer.” Sam slumped lower in his seat, arms laced across his chest. “Too cool for your little brother.”

Dean flashed him a smirk before returning his gaze to the road. “Always have been, Sammy. Just took you awhile to figure it out.” 

He’d walked right into that one. With a huff, Sam shook his head. “And again I ask, _Why?_ ”

“That was the summer--thanks to pansy-assed Bailey--that I figured it out.” Dean rested one wrist on the wheel, his eyes shifting between Sam and the road. “See, you do this thing when you lie, Sam. You tense up, just a little. You press your lips together. And you won’t look me in the eye.” He chuckled and shook his head. “You must’ve done it about ten times that summer.” His smile faded. “And you’ve done it every time I’ve asked what you saw in that flashback.”

“Dean, I . . .” Sam caught himself. Shit. He was doing it, every tell Dean had just described.

Dean pulled the car to the side of the road. Turning off the engine, he pinned Sam with unrelenting eyes. “Just spit it out, Sam. Considering the way you’re acting, I can pretty much guess it involves me.”

“Then why don’t we just drop it?” Sam snapped. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

“So it was about me.” With a sigh, Dean scratched the back of his head. “Sam, don’t you think I’ve got a right to know?” 

Pressing the back of his head against the cool window, Sam tried to think around the ache. “Dean, I’m not sure . . . It’s all messed up.”

“No problem.” Much of the anger had leaked out of Dean’s voice, leaving only stubborn patience. “You just tell me what you can, and we’ll figure it out together.” 

He was tired, and his head throbbed, and a part of Sam wanted Dean to know. Hoped he’d have all the answers if he did. He drew in a deep breath. “It’s . . . I’m not sure where we are, but . . . I’m pissed, and you’re pissed, and you’ve got a gun. You say you want to keep me safe, but that just makes me mad, and . . .” He bit his lip and resolved not to let himself off the hook. “I . . . hurt you, Dean. It . . . it looks bad, and I don’t know--”

“You’re making it sound worse than it was.”

Sam broke off, his jaw dropping at Dean’s calm statement. “What?”

“It wasn’t that bad.” Dean pointed to himself. “Hey, look. I survived--and with my devastatingly good looks intact.”

It felt as if everything were moving a beat ahead of him. “You mean . . . you know what I saw?”

“Dude, flashback. I was there, remember?” Dean’s expression softened at Sam’s confusion. “I knew we should’ve talked about this. But it was no big deal, and I didn’t want you blaming yourself any more than you already were.”

Sam stared at Dean as he tried to process his brother’s total lack of concern. “But it looked like a big deal. It looked like . . . I could’ve killed you.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, right. It was a knock on the head, Sam. I’ve gotten worse from your garden-variety poltergeist.”

Sam’s stomach plunged, and his breath caught in his throat. He kept his expression carefully neutral as Dean talked on.

“And while we’re on the subject, I want to make it clear that next time you ask me to kill you? I’m going to hit _you_ over the head. We are so not going there again. Understand?”

“Yeah.” Sam swallowed, trying--and failing--to moisten his desert-dry throat. “Yeah, I understand.”

“Good.” Dean started the engine, checked over his shoulder, and pulled onto the road. “This is exactly why you shouldn’t keep stuff from me, Sammy. You hold out on me, and I can’t help you. We’re in this thing together, and that means . . .”

Dean’s voice faded to an unintelligible buzz drowned out by Sam’s pounding heart and jumbled thoughts. He had no memory of the incident Dean had described. But he could piece it together. 

He’d turned to his brother in a drunken moment of weakness and fear back at that creepy hotel they’d investigated. He’d begged Dean not to let him become evil, to kill him if the worst should happen. 

And then Meg had come along. She’d plucked that incident from his brain like a piece of ripe fruit and tried to use it against Dean. 

Sam had no trouble envisioning how things might have gone if Dean had fallen for Meg’s little ruse and shot him. Discovering Sam had been possessed and not evil would have done more than kill Dean. It would have destroyed him. And from what Dean _wasn’t_ saying, the bitch had come damn close to succeeding.

Just thinking about it filled Sam with an icy rage as intense as what he’d felt in the vision. If given the chance, he knew he’d kill Meg without hesitation. And without regard to her host. 

And if he could do that . . .

Maybe he could turn that rage on the only person who really mattered. 

Who he’d die for. 

Sam closed his burning eyes. He had some thinking to do.


	7. Chapter 7

Bobby was waiting for them when they arrived.

Sure, he looked like he was working--shoulders deep under the hood of a red Mustang, his cap turned backward and an oily rag trailing from his back pocket. But Dean saw the way his spine stiffened at the Impala’s purr. Detected the subtle shift of gaze from road to engine. Caught the flicker of anxiety before Bobby straightened, his expression neutral.

Sam, who’d barely moved a finger during the last sixty miles, turned abruptly twitchy. He sat up straight, one knee jiggling as he chewed a thumbnail. 

“Relax,” Dean murmured, parking the car next to a battered pickup. “It’s Bobby, not a firing squad.”

“Easy for you to say.” Sam let up on the thumbnail and swiped his palms over his jeans.

Dean cut the engine but didn’t get out. “The man’s our friend, Sam. He’s on your side.”

Sam turned to face him, his jaw clenched. “He looks at me different, Dean. Since Meg . . . He hasn’t looked at me the same way.”

For a moment Dean was shocked to silence as he tried to recall their interactions with Bobby once they’d sent Meg packing. Sure, the guy had been a little tense, a little gruff. But a fellow hunter was dead, and a smart-mouthed demon had just tried to kick the shit out of him. And Bobby wasn’t exactly Mr. Touchy-Feely on a good day.

“He was worried about both of us,” Dean said. From the corner of his eye he saw Bobby headed toward them. “This whole mess with Wandell’s buddies getting stirred up? Is exactly what he was afraid might happen. He knows none of it was your fault, and he doesn’t want you to take the fall for it.”

Sam bit his lip and looked away. When he saw Bobby approaching, he pasted on a smile and got out of the car. “Hey, Bobby.”

Dean sighed and shook his head, opening his own door. As he watched Bobby shake Sam’s hand, he looked for hesitation or the slightest hint of suspicion. Bobby’s clasp seemed firm, and if his gaze was sharp, it quickly gave way to a warm smile.

“You boys made good time,” he said as Dean rounded the hood to join them. “Hungry?”

“Not really,” Sam said. When he caught Dean’s _I told you so_ stare, he pressed his lips together. “We stopped for something a couple of hours ago.”

“Well, I’m starving, so you can c’mon in and watch me eat.” Bobby turned and headed for the house.

Dean pulled his duffel from the back seat and followed, smothering a grin. Bobby had obviously attended the John Winchester school of hospitality. Might explain why they always felt so at home here.

When they hit the porch, Dean snagged Sam’s bag and added it to his own, wincing at the pull on his tender shoulder. “Go ahead. I’m gonna drop these off and hit the can.”

For a moment Sam looked as if he wanted to protest, but he just tightened his mouth and nodded. Dean watched him stride toward the kitchen, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched, tension in every line of his body. A far cry from the guy who was normally content to sprawl on Bobby’s couch, spending hours poring over his extensive collection of books.

With a shake of his head, Dean lugged the bags upstairs to the guest room--or the closest thing to it. To his surprise, most of the boxes had been shoved into a corner and a set of clean sheets sat on top of the worn double mattress. Huh. Bobby must be worried; he was going all-out.

Dean took his time upstairs, hoping his absence would give Bobby a chance to resolve the tension--real or imagined--between him and Sam. He used the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and even changed his shirt before heading down to the kitchen.

As he descended the stairs, he heard the rattle of pans followed by Bobby’s terse voice. “You’re puttin’ words in my mouth. That ain’t what I meant, Sam.”

“You sure about that?”

Dean paused, not exactly encouraged by the irritation in Bobby’s voice, the defensiveness in Sam’s. He leaned against the wall, chewing his lip.

“Am I . . .” Bobby snorted. “Hell, just forget I said anything.” There was the slam of a cupboard door, followed by him muttering under his breath.

Sam huffed. “The answer is yes, I keep it on me at all times. Why would I leave myself open, Bobby? Unless you think I’ve already started to slip. That I want it to happen again.”

That got Dean’s feet moving. He rounded the corner and crossed the living room to find Sam glaring a hole in the kitchen table while Bobby stood beside him looking gobsmacked, a cooking spoon clutched in his hand. 

“Sam, you can’t honestly think that I . . .” Bobby trailed off, looking helplessly at Dean, who lifted his hands-- _Don’t look at me._

With a growl, Bobby pulled out a chair and dropped into it. He yanked off his ball cap, ran a hand through his hair and replaced it, then drew in a long breath. 

“Sam. Your daddy was a good friend. Obsessive, obnoxious, insufferably pigheaded--but a good friend. I’d never forgive myself if I let something happen to one of his boys.”

Sam slowly raised his head to study Bobby’s face. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. You can’t tell me that’s not fear.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Damn right it is. But _for_ you, you idgit. Not _of_ you.”

Sam averted glistening eyes, swallowing hard. “No one’s more scared than me. If it happened again, I . . .”

“It ain’t gonna happen again.” Bobby stood and lightly cuffed Sam’s head. “Which is why I was making sure you still had that charm.”

He turned back to the stove, and an awkward silence fell until Dean dropped into a chair, briskly rubbing his hands together. “Now that we got that out of the way, something smells awesome.”

“I’d rather hear what Bobby found out,” Sam said, pinning the older man with eyes that Dean knew firsthand were hard to resist.

“It’ll keep,” Bobby said in a tone that discouraged argument. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and as for the two of you . . .” He shook his head. “I’ve seen zombies look better.”

Though the expression on Sam’s face said he clearly wanted to protest, he slumped into his chair, teeth back to worrying his thumb.

A kick to the leg of his chair shook Dean from his observation. 

“You know where the bowls and spoons are.” Bobby hooked a thumb at the cabinets over his shoulder while he stirred something in a large metal pot. “Make yourself useful.” 

Dean sighed and set the table along with the required amount of grumbling, gratified to see the barest twitch of Sam’s lips. He deliberately set a bowl in front of his brother, ignoring the huff of displeasure. Bobby backed him up by filling it.

After setting three beers and some slices of bread on the table, Bobby joined them. “You boys been working?”

“Put down a zombie earlier this week,” Dean said, cracking open his beer. “You?” He watched from the corner of his eye as Sam hesitantly picked up his spoon.

Bobby shrugged. “Just a couple of werewolves. It’s been pretty quiet.”

Dean sat straighter, Sam momentarily forgotten. “Werewolves? The real deal?” At Bobby’s grunt of affirmation, he protested, “Damn, Bobby. You should’ve called us.”

“No need.” Bobby reached for a slice of bread. “Day I can’t handle a couple-a those mutts on my own is the day it’s time for me to pack it in.”

“C'mon, werewolves are badass.” Dean ignored Sam’s soft huff of amusement. “We haven’t seen one in years.”

“Pain in the ass is more like it,” Bobby said. “Nothing to get worked up about.”

“Unless you’re Dean,” Sam mumbled around a mouthful of stew. “Then they're the equivalent of Disney World.”

“Tell me you don’t get tired of the same old poltergeists and shapeshifters,” Dean replied, secretly relieved to see Sam surface from his brooding, even if talking with food in your mouth was disgusting and . . . 

_Hang on._ Dean froze mid-chew. Sam was listening to Bobby’s diatribe on why werewolves were no more than glorified black dogs and digging into his stew like, well, like someone who had eaten next to nothing for days. The bowl was already more than half empty.

And then, just like that, it clicked. Bobby’s stew. 

Though Dad had avoided resorting to fast food as much as possible when they were kids, his idea of a home-cooked meal had usually come from a box or can. No surprise, then, that when Sam had tasted his first helping of Bobby’s stew, filled with chunks of fresh potatoes, carrots, celery, and mushrooms, the vegetable-loving freak had adored it.

And Bobby knew it.

As Sam began recounting one of their run-ins with a black dog, Bobby shifted his gaze to Dean. A quirk of his mouth and his full attention slid back to Sam, so quickly Dean would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching.

Yep, Bobby knew it.

Dean squashed a grin. “It was Wisconsin, not Minnesota,” he said, slathering butter on a slice of bread.

Okay, so maybe he was yanking Sam’s chain and it really was Minnesota. Carrying on an argument distracted his brother until his second helping of stew was gone. Not to mention for a few precious moments things felt almost normal—for Winchesters, anyway.

Unfortunately, once the food disappeared, Sam’s temporary lift in spirits followed. He leaned back in his chair, arms folded in a posture that would have looked mulish except for the haunted vulnerability in his eyes.

“Tell us about Jack and Amanda Brigman, Bobby,” he said. The _don’t hold back_ was implicit in his flat tone and narrowed eyes.

Pushing to his feet with a sigh, Bobby tipped his head toward the other room. “If we’re gonna do this, might as well be comfortable.”

Dean followed his brother into the living room and dropped onto the worn couch. Sam stood, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the world.

Bobby gathered papers from his desk and sat in an armchair, giving the same look he’d used on a ten-year-old Sam who wouldn’t stop reading and go to bed. “Kid, what’s done is done. You tyin’ yourself in knots ain’t gonna make it go away. Sit.”

Sam pressed his lips into a thin line, but perched on the other end of the couch.

“Like I told Dean, Steve Wandell and Jack Brigman used to team up on hunts,” Bobby said. “Kinda like your daddy and Bill Harvelle before . . . Well, before.”

A soft sound from Sam drew Dean’s gaze. His brother was clenching his hands so tightly his nails were going to leave marks. “What?”

“Nothing.” Sam swallowed and gave a quick jerk of his head, as if shaking off whatever he’d been thinking. He never took his eyes from Bobby. “Go on.”

“Thing is, they were more than just huntin' buddies, they were best friends,” Bobby continued. “Guess it’s not surprising considerin’ how similar their lives were. Both of ’em got into hunting because they’d lost the woman they loved—Wandell to a revenant, Brigman to a shifter. And both of ’em were left with a daughter to raise alone.”

“Now they've got even more in common,” Sam said. “Both of them were murdered by the same person.”

“The same demon bitch, you mean,” Dean snapped. “And are we sure about that?”

“A friend of a friend was able to get a look at the forensic reports,” Bobby said. “Same blade killed both men.”

Damn. Though he’d known it was a long shot, Dean had held out hope the deaths were unrelated. “Did you find out anything more about the daughter?” He stole a glance at Sam; his brother’s face was the blank mask he’d seen on and off since Jessica’s death, whenever Sam just didn’t want to deal.

“Just that she’s still missing.” Bobby paused, gaze shifting between the two of them as he laid a sheet of paper on the coffee table. “And she drove an old Volkswagon, also MIA.”

When Sam made no move, Dean picked up the paper--a DMV printout. A quick scan of the year, model, and color told him all he needed to know. Double damn.

“Is that her?” Sam asked roughly, indicating the remaining sheet in Bobby’s hand.

“Yeah.” Bobby laid the photo face up on the table. “It’s a little grainy, but . . .”

Dean leaned forward. Wavy blonde hair framed a heart-shaped face and wide blue eyes. Early twenties and pretty in that girl-next-door kind of way. Sweet. 

No need to ask if she was the one. Sam’s eyes were glassy, his face pale. 

“It’s about time you boys told me what the hell’s going on,” Bobby said. “Do you know where the girl is?”

When Sam continued to stare a hole through the photo, Dean sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Not exactly. We--"

“She’s dead.” Sam stood and paced to the window, his shoulders around his ears. “I don’t know what I did with the body.”

Bobby rubbed a hand along his jaw. “Hell.”

“Wandell’s place had video surveillance,” Dean said. “Any chance Brigman’s was wired the same way?”

“There are at least a half-dozen hunters looking for Amanda and his killer,” Bobby said. “If they’d found evidence it was Sam, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Maybe we should tell them,” Sam said quietly.

“Excuse me?” Dean crossed the room in three quick strides, grabbing Sam by the arm. “Tell me you didn’t suggest what I think you did.”

Sam shook him off, his features set. “So . . . we just let them keep looking? Don’t you think they deserve to know the truth?”

“And after you tell them, then what?” Dean snarled, fear feeding his fury. “You think they’re just gonna let you walk away?”

“You’re the one who keeps saying it wasn’t me, wasn’t my fault,” Sam's voice rose. “If we explain everything, tell them about Meg--"

“And if they’re not in a particularly understanding frame of mind? These guys are out for blood! You can’t reason with people like that. Didn’t you learn anything from Gordon?”

Sam went still. “Wait--is that what this is about? What are you really afraid of, Dean? That they’ll find out what I did, or that they’ll find out what I am?”

The accusation hit like a punch to the gut. “Damn it, Sam, that’s not what I--"

“Your brother’s right.”

In the heat of the argument, Dean had forgotten Bobby’s presence. 

The older man stood, pinning Sam with a stern glare. “Those hunters don’t want answers, they want revenge. You tell them you were the one holdin’ that knife, you’ll only wind up the sacrificial lamb.”

“See? That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Dean latched onto the backup, hoping like hell Sam would listen. 

“Best thing you can do right now is lay low until things cool down.” Bobby turned to Dean. “You boys are welcome to camp out here as long as you need.”

“Sounds good.” Dean hoped Bobby could read the gratitude in his eyes. “But while Sammy’s keeping his head down, I might take a little side trip.”

“Meaning?”

“We know where the girl’s car is. Think it’s too risky for some damage control?”

Bobby grimaced. “Depends. Where is it?”

Dean opened his mouth but never got the chance to reply.

“You know, why don’t I just leave you two alone,” Sam said through gritted teeth. “Seems like you’ve got things all figured out, and I could use some air.” He grabbed his jacket off the hook and stomped out the door.

Dean looked at Bobby. Seeing his own _Oh crap_ mirrored on the older man’s face, he heaved a sigh. “That went well.”


	8. Chapter 8

At first Sam just walked, so blinded by emotion he was oblivious to where he was going. Anger at being shunted aside like a child while the grown-ups decided what was best for him. Frustration that none of the choices before him felt right--not even the one he'd suggested. And always, coloring everything, a deep sense of shame. Not just at what he’d done, but at who--at what--he was.

By the time he reached the edge of the salvage yard, Sam had barked his shin on a rusty tailpipe and run out of steam. Sliding onto the hood of an ancient Eldorado, he cradled his head in his hands and fought the urge to either scream or punch something. Suddenly he had a whole new appreciation for Dean’s freak-out with a crowbar and the Impala.

He got that Bobby and Dean were worried. That they wanted to protect him from the bad guys. The problem was that somewhere along the way they seemed to have forgotten that in this particular case, he was the bad guy. Three people were dead. And even if Meg had been driving, he was the vehicle.

Those guys Dean and Bobby expected him to hide from weren’t monsters. They were hunters who risked their lives every day to save people. Their friends, people they cared about, were murdered or missing. Didn’t they deserve to know the truth? 

And damn it, he should be the one making that decision. It wasn’t like Bobby and Dean could stop him if . . .

_“You’re what they’re hunting, remember?” Dean stares him down, his face set and hard. “I’m not letting you within a hundred miles of the bastards.”_

_He curls his fingers into fists, struggling against the overwhelming urge to smash them into Dean’s face. “You can’t stop me.”_

God, was that what the vision meant? Yeah, he was pissed right now, but it was ridiculous to think he’d kill his own brother over it. Unless . . .

_“You lost it this morning, Sammy. You’re out of control, and I can’t trust you out there.”_

No. No way. He’d know if he were losing control.

He’d _know._

Sam sucked in a breath that caught in his chest. When he’d been five and Dean nine, Dad, on a rare break from hunting, had taken them to the beach. Forever trying to keep up with his big brother, Sam had ventured a little too far from shore, where a large wave had knocked him down. Choking and spluttering on a mouthful of salty water, he’d scrambled to his feet--and another wave had slammed into him, taking him under. It had happened again. And again. Until Dean had caught on to the fact that his little brother was in trouble and hauled his ass onto dry land.

Eighteen years later, and he was back on that damn beach. Jess’s death. The demon and its “plans” for him. The accident. Nearly losing Dean. Losing Dad. Secrets. Lies. Meg. 

Rapist.

Murderer.

Sam wound his fingers in his hair and tugged. Hard. The waves just kept coming and he . . .

He was drowning.

And there was no way he was going to take Dean with him.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there when he heard the crunch of boots on gravel and Dean’s voice floated out of the darkness. “Is this a private pissy party, or can anyone come?” 

Sam flopped onto his back with a groan, one arm slung over his eyes. “Like my answer’s gonna make any difference.”

The car dipped with a soft screech of grinding metal, and he felt Dean’s warmth along his side. Sam braced himself . . . for platitudes, for arguments, for bad jokes. The only thing he wasn’t prepared for was what he got--nothing. For a long time, Dean simply sat beside him, a silent presence that was oddly reassuring. 

“You know,” Dean said, “I’d forgotten what a great place this is for hide-and-seek.”

From beneath his arm Sam growled, “This isn’t a game, Dean.”

“Just as well. You sucked at hide-and-seek. Always picked the same lame places.” Dean snickered. “Like underneath that old pick-up truck.”

Dropping his arm, Sam glared. “I was _six_.”

Dean smirked, clearly pleased that he’d gotten a reaction. Sam huffed, tipping his head to stare up at the stars. Dean hummed a little Metallica under his breath and tapped out an accompanying beat on the hood. 

After several more minutes, Dean paused. “You remember that time we were playing soccer with cans?”

Sam snorted. “You mean when we busted the window of that T-bird Bobby was restoring?”

“ _We_ didn’t break it. _I_ did. Kicked that mother right through the windshield. You lied and said you’d done it.” Dean glanced back over his shoulder at Sam, the smile gone. “Dad tore you a new one and made you Bobby’s slave until you’d worked it off.”

“It might as well have been me,” Sam said with the shrug of a shoulder.

“How do you figure?”

Sam pushed up on his elbows. “You never wanted to play in the first place--I bugged you until you agreed. If you’d had your way, we’d’ve practiced bow hunting and it wouldn’t have happened.”

Dean shook his head. “That’s so not the point.”

Irritation bubbled up stronger. “Assuming there is one.”

“There is, smartass.” Dean pulled up one leg, twisting to face him. “You’ve always been too willing to blame yourself, Sammy. Even when it wasn’t your fault.”

His throat tightened and his eyes stung. “This isn’t the same.”

“You sure about that?” Dean held up a hand when Sam started to reply. “Look, I get that you want these guys to have some kind of closure, man, I really do. I just think that deep down, you wouldn’t mind if giving them the truth turned into some kind of penance for you.”

Sam looked away, his mouth clamped shut. While he wanted to sneer that Dean didn’t know what he was talking about, in reality his brother had hit a little too close to the mark. Maybe the best thing for both of them would be to let those hunters do their job.

Apparently taking his silence as an admission, Dean huffed, and his words took on the clipped, authoritative quality he’d picked up from their dad. “Well, you can forget it. You’re staying right here and keeping your head down, just like Bobby said.”

That snapped Sam’s head around, fury dropping his voice to a raspy growl. “I’m not a kid anymore. I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, you’re doing a bang-up job so far.”

The muttered response pulled him upright, and he slid to his feet, turning to face Dean. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dean stiffened a little but remained seated despite Sam’s looming. “These flashbacks are messing with your head, Sam. You’re not eating, you’re sure as hell not sleeping. And you’re reacting instead of thinking. First you run off to find Jo in the middle of the night, and now you’re ready to spill your guts to a bunch of guys--trained killers, by the way--who I guarantee aren’t going to thank you for it.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “So, what--now I’m incapable of making a rational decision? Keep telling yourself that, man, if it helps you sleep at night.”

“I sleep like a baby--not that I know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Sam threw up his hands, pacing away and then returning to glare at his brother. “You can’t just twist everything to suit you. Have you even once put yourself in their place? What if it were Jefferson or Bobby cut to pieces--hell, what if it were me?”

“But it isn’t you,” Dean said impatiently. “And as long as I’m around, it isn’t gonna be. Which is why you’re not going anywhere.”

It was like banging his head against a leather-clad wall. Sam gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. “You don’t get to decide for me. It’s my life.”

Dean stared at him a moment and then laughed, but it held no humor. “Keep telling yourself that, if it helps you sleep at night.” He stood. “You know, you’re all I got left, Sammy. Have you even once thought about that?” He turned and started walking back to the house.

Sam’s chest felt tight, as if someone were squeezing the air from his lungs. “Dean.”

His brother didn’t turn, just kept walking. “Maybe I can’t stop you from beating yourself up. But don’t ask me to sit around and let someone else do it.”

The darkness swallowed Dean, the angry scuff of his footsteps fading soon after. Sam paced in a tight circle, swearing with a degree of creativity that would have impressed his brother if he’d still been within earshot.

His fury eventually spent, he sagged against the fender. _Way to go, Sam._

Why was it that disagreements between him and Dean always turned out the same? He was an adult--he’d lived on his own, taken care of himself, could take Dean in a fight . . . Well, sometimes. Yet the minute an argument heated up and Dean got all big brother on his ass, he reverted to Sammy. He might as well have stamped his foot and yelled, “You’re not the boss of me!”

Damn it.

Gritting his teeth, Sam sucked in a deep breath and uncurled hands that he’d unconsciously clenched into fists. He . . .

_. . . wipes his bloody hands on his shirt and stares down at the still-twitching body, lip curled. “Stupid bitch. Didn’t Daddy teach you that monsters don’t always look the part?”_

_He dumps the body into the trunk and tosses the knife into the back seat. Folding his long legs behind the wheel is a pain in the ass, but he grits his teeth and . . ._

_. . . drives past the sign for Bear Lake, following the gravel road around the water and pulling into the cover of some trees. Dusk has fallen, turning the shadows long and deep. Humming under his breath he opens the trunk, hoisting her body over his shoulder and tucking the collapsible shovel . . ._

_. . . The undergrowth is thick, scratching his arms and snagging the pale silk strands of her hair. It’s a pain in the ass, and he doesn’t walk far before tossing her body to the ground so he can begin digging._

_He makes the hole shallow--no sense working up a sweat over a useless hunk of meat._ So what if someone finds the body, _he thinks with a smirk,_ all the DNA evidence points to sweet little Sammy. Who’ll be sweet _dead_ Sammy if all goes well-- 

Shards of pain shot through his palms and his knees ached dully. Sam sucked in a gasp and blinked; he was on all fours, his face inches from gravel and dirt. Dirt just like . . . He scrambled to his feet, heart pounding and hands shaking. 

He’d agonized over what might have happened to Amanda Brigman’s body. Now he knew. Sam swiped the back of one trembling hand over his mouth. He could still smell the sharp scent of pine, feel the warm tackiness of blood. He plucked at his shirt, and his stomach turned over. Bracing his hands on his knees, he struggled to breathe slowly and deeply.

Anger mixed with revulsion, flushing hot across his cheeks and thudding dully behind his eyes. _Meg._ She’d set out to destroy him and Dean, and Steve Wandell, Jack and Amanda Brigman--they’d been sacrificed to that end with no more regard than squashing a few pesky bugs.

Except . . . She’d _enjoyed_ it. Every second of the humiliation, the fear, the agony she’d inflicted. He knew that, felt the depth of it, because while he’d been Sam, for that endless week he’d also been Meg. And yeah, there were times he’d been strong enough to fight her, to scream and rail against what she was doing. But there were other times, the ones his brain was only now allowing him to recall in spurts, when her hold had been so strong, and he’d been so tied up in her that . . . God . . . he’d enjoyed it too.

With a growl that felt torn from his chest, Sam slammed his fist onto the Eldorado’s hood. Again. And again. His vision a red haze, he lost track of everything but the feel of his fist connecting. The sound of metal crunching. Until a steel band wrapped around his chest, pinning his arms to his sides.

“Knock it off! Right now!”

Dean’s voice in his ear stopped Sam’s instinctive struggle against being restrained; he stilled, panting. 

His brother stepped back, spinning Sam to scan his face with equal parts anger and worry. “Are you nuts? What the hell, Sam?”

The satisfaction from punching something was already fading, and suddenly his hand hurt like a bitch. “Trying the Dean Winchester method of anger management,” he said, horrified when his voice cracked.

Dean grabbed his right wrist, grimacing at bloody knuckles and swollen fingers. “Got a tip for you, Einstein. You’re supposed to use a tire iron.”

“Knew I forgot something.” Sam tugged his hand from Dean’s grasp, bringing up the other to conceal burning eyes.

Dean’s voice softened. “You gonna tell me what this is all about?”

“Amanda,” Sam said, dropping his hand and forcing himself to meet Dean’s gaze.

With a huff of displeasure, Dean shook his head. “Sam, I already told you--”

“I know where I--where Meg buried her.”

The skin around Dean’s eyes tightened. “Another flashback?”

Sam nodded. 

“And you got a location?”

Sam ducked his head, rubbing at the torn flesh over his knuckles. Wincing, he wiped the smeared blood on his jeans. “There was a sign. Bear Lake.”

Dean heaved a sigh and rubbed the back of his neck. “Crap.”

“We’ve got to take care of her, Dean,” Sam said, working hard to keep his voice steady. “I . . . It’s a shallow grave. Meg _wanted_ her body to be found.”

“You know how risky this is, right?” Dean snapped, but Sam knew the anger wasn’t directed at him. “You’re talking about going back to the scene of the crime. If anyone’s watching us . . .”

Relief flooded through Sam like a cool wave, muting the pain in his hand.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What?”

Sam’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “You said watching ‘us.’ Not ‘me.’”

“Yeah, well, if I could keep you here I would. But I’m sure Bobby won’t let me use drugs or handcuffs. And I’d rather have you where I can keep an eye on you.”

With a nod Sam curbed the impulse to remind Dean he could watch out for himself, instead taking comfort in his brother’s solid support. “Thanks.”

Dean held up a hand. “Don’t thank me yet. I have conditions.”

“Which are?” Sam narrowed his eyes.

“We leave in the morning. _After_ I clean up the number you did on your hand and you get a decent night’s sleep.” Dean’s voice was steel, his gaze uncompromising. “And you hang back, let me do all the face work. I want you low profile, Sammy. I mean it.”

Sam knew better than to argue. “Okay.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? Okay?”

With a shrug, Sam nodded. “We can’t find anything in the dark anyway. And my hand hurts like a sonuvabitch.”

“That hand’ll be the least of your worries when Bobby finds out you dented up his car,” Dean observed as they walked back toward the house.

“Hey, I took the blame for you all those years ago,” Sam pointed out. “You telling me you’re not gonna return the favor?”

“Sorry, kiddo.” Dean nudged Sam’s shoulder with a smirk. “I’ve seen the Bobby Singer method of anger management. You’re on your own.”


End file.
